Kahena
by PippinStrange
Summary: Danny suffers from a frightening medical scare after a successful drug bust, but in the process of a trip to the ER and follow-up appointments, it turns out there's more going on. Things start to go downhill as Danny goes through the process of being diagnosed with cancer. Written based entirely on my own experiences, rated for no details left out. (I'm in remission)
1. Kahena

Dear readers,

This is my first attempt at a Hawaii 5-0 fic. It's from Danny's POV. RATED T for MAJOR POTTY LANGUAGE (mostly implied)

Please review and let me know what you think.

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...

Kill or be killed, and we're doing the killing. When I see all the forty sevens, I have a feeling things are going south real fast. I dodge behind a boxcar stack, where naturally, someone's already hiding, and its not one of mine, either.

Its already been an incredibly _stressful_ day.

This mean-looking gangster (right down to the tats and long ponytail) is holding one of those thick metal pipes, y'know, yardstick length (what? they keep shit like this in warehouses, okay?) and swings it like a freaking baseball bat. My gun points right at his chest - I pull the trigger - the gun clicks. _Out._

He hits me in the stomach with the pipe, and I fall down, gasping with the wind knocked out of me. He raises the pipe over his head to come down for a Blow Finale, I don't even have time to raise an arm or kick him in the leg.

In a second I'm going to be dead. _I love you, Gracie._

BAM! Son of a bitch gets shot (excellent marksmanship, McGarret) and goes down. I scramble to my feet, giving a casual, manly nod of gratitude to my partner for saving my ass just then. No big deal. It's not like I wasn't just struck with the question of mortality and my place in this universe, and wondering if this afternoon was the last time I would see my baby girl.

Within seconds, the firefight is over, but it felt like hours. No one was hurt. We didn't even need to call in Lou's SWAT guys. Everyone's okay. Lou, Kono, Steve, Chin. We're all right. They're okay.

I'm okay, too.

It's not like I haven't been hit before. I wasn't _shot._ No broken skin. No bullet wounds. He missed the ribs, so no broken bones. Couldn't have hit me much harder than an big elbow in a bar fight, right?

I can, in every literal sense of the word, feel it in my gut. Something isn't right. Which, I decide, shall wait till the appropriate time. Why I think I could make that decision and control any outcome, I've got no idea. I am going to blame it on the rancid fragrance of the gunsmoke.

Somehow the timetable for absorbing shock is longer tonight.

First things first, I laugh it off. Because that's what I (expletive) do. (so many expletives, but I got a daughter, alright? I've learned to censor for public television).

"Are you hurt?" Kono is asking.

I'm replying, "I'm all right, I'm all right," and I'm walking upright like I am. Chin and Lou are slapping each other on the back. Its an easy night. _Good shooting,_ we call it, when we know the paperwork will be a breeze. The drug deal going bad, visual contact, payment exchanged between parties made, police presence announced (in typical McGarret fashion) "FIVE OH! WEAPONS ON THE GROUND!" then suddenly the bust is crawling with big ass guns; AK-47s (you know the type) in a clear cut case of self defense with a side of armed dealers having completed a drug sale right in front of the entire task force.

I'm in denial, both physically and mentally. I'm stepping out the door, walking back to the car like its no big deal. I'm an injured dog, crawling under a porch to hide from prying eyes.

I'm outside now, and I notice its dark. Its late, past Grace's bedtime. She wouldn't be expecting me home soon anyway, and she has a babysitter. That snazzy neighbor girl, Emma, who helps Grace with her homework. Good kid. I get the sinking feeling Emma's going to have to wake Gracie up with bad news, anyway. Poor kiddo.

I get several yards past the warehouse, where the hidden blue and red lights are silent and dark. Its not until I open my car door that the heat comes. I'm hotter than I've ever been in my life. The hottest sunburn, or the lava from the volcano pit. You name it, I feel it.

It engulfs me so suddenly that I immediately sit sideways in the driver's seat, needing to be close to the ground, but quite unwilling to be one of the douchebags that takes a little stroll and passes out in the parking lot. That would not be me. This is NOT me.

I know the blood is draining from my head. I feel dizzy. I'm leaning on the headrest now, reminding myself that I should put my head between my knees. That's the right way to go about these things.

But my head isn't going anywhere near my knees, and what's worse... the worst (expletiiiive) feeling in the world (ALL THE EXPLETIVSHES) ...I have the distinct feeling that I'm shitting myself. Not _kidding_ myself. Literal shit. I am not that metaphorical today. As in; this old man needs diapers sort of shit. Who the absolute (effplative) shits himself in his own ccurarr...?

"Help," I try to say, and my voice squeaks out like a pubescent twelve year old with bronchitis. So much for that. I am around the corner of the warehouse, it's not like anyone can see me pathetically wave an arm back and forth. _Come help me, I'm losing my shit. IT IS NOT A METAPHOR._

I'm a smart man. So I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Steve, still in the warehouse, less than thirty yards away. Slapping backs. _Good shooting. Good shooting. Good shitting._

" _Hey,"_ he answers jubilantly. "Where'd you go?"

"Just outside," I reply in the most neutral tone. My own nonchalance even freaks _me_ out. "Hey, can you do me big a favor?"

"Big a favor?" he repeats, laughing. "What's up?"

"It's just," I hesitate, "Can you come out here? I sort of feel like I'm passing out? And I, uh, ya know, don't wana worry the other guys, and I..."

"I'm coming," Steve's voice is quick, calm, reassuring, and deadly quiet. This makes me worry more about him, not me. "Where are you now?"

"By the car," my words nearly slur, but I am still keeping it together. "I just... shit myself. _Literally._ Soumethings wruung." I spend two seconds too long on each vowel.

"Call an ambulance," Steve's voice barks, away from the phone, but loud enough so that I can hear it from where I'm sitting.

"What's wrong?" I hear Chin ask.

"DO IT NOW!"

"Where'd Danny run off to?" Lou is asking.

Footsteps running towards me, then a pair of hands gently rest on my knees. Steve is kneeling in front of me, his eyes trying to zero in on mine. "Hey man," he says. Too quiet for me to hear. My hearing is zoning in and out, ears ringing like a bad special effect to try and articulate the brief deafness that occurs after a bombing. "I'm right here. What's up? Talk to me."

"I juust feel really dizzy, okay?" I reply with a half laugh. "Don't overreact. Pleashhe don't tell the othersmkay? I shit myself, too. Literally. There's shit in my pants. That's not _normal_... right?"

"No, it's not normal. But it's okay. You're okay," a hand grasps my chin and keeps my head from lolling sideways and hitting the steering wheel. "Let's get you lying down here on the ground, okay? I mean, we don't really want to put that masterpiece you call your hair in any danger, right?" He grasps my arms and tries to lift me off the seat.

"Don't move me," I say stoically. "Jesus, my skin hurts. Please don't touch me."

McGarret is unsure of how to react for a moment. I hear other footsteps, but I'm not really focused enough to see them. The team is standing behind him, I think, blurry. Lou's head looks like a chocolate gumdrop.

The thought of candy turns my stomach over, and I'm suddenly doubled over with pain, vomiting on the asphalt uncontrollably. It's splattering on Steve's jeans, and even his hands, but he's not even making protests. I feel like he should be telling me to stop, to quit messing around. He doesn't.

"It's okay, buddy, I got you, I got you," he's halfway standing now, using both hands to brace my shoulders to keep me from falling face first into the ground, despite the fact it means I am decorating his shoes. My forehead droops naturally into his chest, and he allows it to stay there, even though I know that's a favorite shirt. What the hell is wrong with this guy, anyway?

There goes dinner. _Goodbye, dinner._ Steve gets to wear it now.

Chin is on the phone with dispatch. "I _know_ I said officer down, and I meant it! No, no, he wasn't shot, not that we can tell...I don't see any kind of bruising or abrasions on his head..."

"Someone hit him hard in the stomach with a lead pipe," Steve interrupts.

"Okay, he got hit in the stomach with a lead pipe," Chin's repeating. "I think he soiled himself. _Check with him?_ He's not really in a place to confirm or deny it. Jesus."

"Gimme that," Lou is grabbing the phone. "Yes, ma'am. Mhm. How many times? I think he's vomited about five times. Dizzy, yes. Cool cloth. Got it."

"I've got a gym bag in my car, I'll get a towel," Kono is sprinting towards her car.

Every heave tightens up my shoulders, thrusts a migraine through my head, drawing more and more vomit out of my body and onto the ground. I am single-handedly recreated the Exorcist. My mind completely checks out. I am in the nothing box. I am not thinking, I am not feeling. I am completely numb, except for the fuzz. Everything's fuzzy. At least I can count on that.

"Danny," Steve says loudly. "It's all right. I'm right here with you. I'm right here. Come on, don't do this to me. Wake up. Come on buddy. Danny? Can you hear me? Wake up! Come on!"

My mind checks back in, and I am painfully aware of everyone staring at me and the tinny sound of the dispatch's voice on the phone. Kono is handing Steve a soaked towel, and putting a water bottle beside a puddle of my vomit.

"There you are, buddy," Steve's voice is way too loud in my ear. "Thought you were trying to scare us for a minute there. Good to have you back. You just stay with me, all right?"

Jesus Christ. I've never thrown up so much in my life, not even with a stomach flu. Steve uses his own bare hand to wipe vomit from my chin, then wipes it on his pants.

"Mmshhhhry," I slur quietly. The shit has to smell, but I can't smell anything.

"What was that, Danny?" Steve asks.

"Mm sorrr..." I try again. _I'm sorry! I'm SORRY! It's not that hard to say!_

"Don't even apologize," Steve is saying. "It's okay. This is what I'm here for, okay? I'm not letting you go. I've gotcha."

"He's stopped vomiting right before he lost consciousness, mhm," Lou is saying. "...he's awake again. Maybe less than a minute, Chin?"

"It was about forty seconds," Chin says quietly.

"How long till that God damn ambulance gets here?" Steve might be shouting, but his voice sounds like its on another island.

"Ma'am, what's the ambulance's ETA?" Lou asks calmly. A pause. "About six minutes. Maybe less. Thank-you ma'am. Yes, we're staying on the line, of course."

"How you doin, buddy?" Steve asks me, draping the cold towel over the back of my neck. I have never felt something so goddamn good in my whole life. Better than sex. "You got it all out, huh?"

"Uhuh," I mumble. I realize my entire body is absolutely dripping with moisture. My clothes are plastered to me as if I jumped in the ocean. The fiery heat enveloping my body is finally calming down. "That towel feels real good..."

"Yeah?" Steve asks encouragingly. "Good, I'm glad to hear that. Do you feel like moving, Danny? Laying down on the ground, maybe?" My head drops to my chest. "Hey, come on, Danny. Look at me."

 _I AM looking at you, bro, but I can't f-cking see you._

"Yeah, bout that," I mutter. "Somethinsh weird."

"His words are still slurring," Lou narrates like live documentarian.

You know that thing that happens when you turn your TV to a channel you don't have? And that black and white static snowfall screen shows up with an uncomfortable roaring sound? Imagine that snow static, except red and yellow. And that's it. Your eyes are now a TV with bad static. Yellow and red dots, blinking at seven hundred miles an hour, with shapes still distinguishable inside. Steve looks like a cartoon filter from a photobooth program, the one Gracie was so excited about having on her laptop.

"I can't see," I'm finally aware of my hands. I reach out and Steve grasps it, and I squeeze it hard. "Okay?" I ask. "Get whatum mean? M'not blind, itsh'all red'n'yellow."

"Tunnel vision?" Lou asks.

I don't answer, I don't know how else to describe it. Maybe it is tunnel vision, but I'm not heading for the bright light.

I'm going to hell.

Remember, I'm not metaphorical today. Maybe some days, not today. I'm going to hell. I don't want to take Steve with me, either, so I loosen my grip on his hand. I mean, everything is red and yellow already, flickering in a million speckles and dots. Maybe they're flames. Maybe that's why I'm burning alive. It's so damn _hot._

" _Danny! Come on, buddy, stay with me. I've gotchya. I'm not letting go. Come on buddy, wake up."_

I wish Steve would speak up, because I can't really hear him from hell. It's too loud down here. There's a roaring sound, and a weird hydraulics, iron against iron sound (the gates to Hell, maybe?) opening and closing, opening and closing... or its just the pressure in my ears changing, but I'm voting for gates.

 _If I'm dying,_ I thought, trying to say it out loud. My lips didn't move a muscle. _I just want you all to know, I love you. You're my family. Steve, I love you, man. You're my best friend._

The metallic sneering sound grows louder and unbearable. I want to cover my ears and I can't. Everything's burning and I'm in a hell of a lot of pain, pun intended.

" _Danny. Okay, we're moving. We're moving. You're okay, I've got you._

I suddenly realized I was just accepting this like it was reality. But I don't _like_ this reality, so, screw this. Screw the gates of hell. If I can not go to hell by sheer will, shouldn't I at least try for Gracie's sake?

" _Feel that? We're on the ground now. You're good here. Come on, Danny. Wake up. Can you hear me? Wake up!"_

I obey. I'm still effing blind to any color and shape except red and yellow, but I'm definitely awake. And my mouth can move again.

"What'd you say?" I say with confusion.

"You just had a seizure, man," Steve is saying calmly. "Straight up twitching and gnashing teeth and flailing arms. But its over now. You're okay."

"A seizure?" I repeat. "What the hell is wrong with me?" I actually shudder.

"The ambulance is here," Steve reassures, keeping an exceptionally warm grip on my hand. "They'll getchya looked at and figure it out. Okay?"

I shift slightly to look. The ambulance is parked beside us, lights whirling, paramedics filing out. I don't remember getting out of the car, but I am lying on the ground now, my feet elevated on Kono's gym duffel. There's a towel draped over me, and one behind my head.

"What'd, j'you run to bed, bath, and beyond just for'me?" I ask.

"Glad you're awake," I can tell Kono is smiling by her tone.

"Hang in there, man," says Chin.

A paramedic asks Steve to step aside. He obeys, but detaches my hand from his own first, which upsets me more than it should have.

You've got to give me a break, I thought I was dying and going to hell two minutes ago. The paramedics get to work, asking me annoying questions, checking my blood pressure and heart rate, taking my temperature, shining a light in my eyes, lifting me into a stretcher and letting me rest. One of them helps me take off my soaked shirt, and Chin pulls an extra shirt from his car for me to borrow. At least its dry. As for the pants, there's not much I can do until I can shower.

All the while, my blood pressure (which was frighteningly, deathly low) is creeping back to normal numbers. My pulse and heart rate are no longer accelerated. Now that my brain is starting to function fairly well, I am deeply embarrassed at the whole debacle.

The paramedics are trying to explain to Steve their theory, and HPD guys show up to start processing the scene. Kono and Lou wish me luck, promise they'll come back, and rush over to help them. Chin continues to hover, if only to make sure Steve doesn't turn into a mama bear.

Look! The metaphors are back! I must be alive.

"I'm telling you it was a seizure," Steve is getting agitated.

"It's not a seizure," the paramedic says.

"I saw it, you didn't..."

"But I am _familiar_ with this. It's called a vasovagal response. It has similar symptoms to a seizure, but a seizure is symmetrical. You said his arms flailed. Did they go in different directions? Or were they matching each others movements, like a mirror?"

"Flailing, like this," Steve jolts one arm up towards his ear, and the other down towards his waist.

I snort, and he shoots me a glare.

"Irregular failings indicate a vasovagal response," said the paramedic. "Luckily, despite how uncomfortable, painful, and scary they can be, they themselves are not dangerous (unless it is a result from another illness, or if your blood pressure continues to drop)."

"What does that mean exactly?" Steve asks.

"What he said," I interject hoarsely.

"We can transport you in the ambulance to the hospital - we absolutely recommend getting all the regular tests run to determine the cause - but we don't need to take him ourselves, actually. We can call ahead and let them know you're coming tonight."

"I'll bring him in," Steve says, as if it were obvious. "But you're saying we can go at our own pace, here? Let him take his time? Change his clothes?"

"Absolutely. As long as he's feeling up to it. It will likely keep his blood pressure stable with less stress, and we find that with these sorts of things, an ambulance ride is not always the best route."

"But have you SEEN him drive?" I exclaim.

The paramedic just smiled. "I'll let the emergency room know you're coming."

"What's wrong with my driving?" Steve smiles down at me, but the mirth is over on my part. I am exhausted. I'm covered in shit and vomit. I'm still terrified. I am totally done with today.

"not so much the driving as to WHAT you will be driving in," I reply. "My car will likely have remnants of biohazard material."

Chin jerks his head. "Hey. Just take mine." He tosses his keys from his pocket, and McGarret catches them precisely.

"Thanks Chin," I mumble.

"Anytime, man. We'll come down as soon as we've wrapped up here."

"You don't have to..." but Chin is already walking away.

"S'alright, man," Steve is kneeling beside the gurney and patting my shoulder gently. "You just say the word. As soon as you're feeling good enough to get up, I'll take you home, help get you showered and changed. You can say goodnight to Gracie and ask the babysitter to stay on a few more hours. Okay?"

"Oooor just leave me here to die," I suggest dryly.

"Never." Steve heaves a big, relieved sigh. He puts his hand on my arm and watches the crime scene processing unfold, and I notice his hand is shaking slightly. "You've got to quit scaring me, man," he says quietly.

A pause. He knows I'm scared. But I don't want to talk about how scared I am.

"By the way," I reply, "Happy Birthday."

...

* * *

...

author note; so aside from the fact that I am not Danny, I experienced this "medical scare" from a different cause (not a lead pipe) verbatim (including the feeling of taking a trip to hell).

THANKS CANCER ...

I felt that it would be cathartic to put it in fanfiction.

Also, note I am in remission from cancer and things are good right now, so this is not a reflection of how I am currently doing.

...


	2. E Ola Aku

...

Wow, I didn't expect so much support for this, 2 or 3 reviews at most. And it _was_ therapeutic. I'm wondering why I didn't apply my troubles to fan fiction before. It's cleansing getting it all the $#1t that happened to me out on paper and using another's voice. I hope I do Danny's voice justice. I like writing for him.

I was planning this as a one shot, but it felt so good to purge, I might keep it up. I might give Danny cancer, idk. Sometimes I desperately need to think about stuff and put it on paper, sometimes I need to ignore everything otherwise it triggers major anxiety issues. But if writing this continues to do good and help me put the memories in a locked box, then I'll keep writing it.

what's fan fiction for if not to manipulate and mold universes and beloved characters to our own insecurities and fantasies and tragedies?

Please review.

This chapter features a good old fashioned #cargument.

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...

The paramedics let me keep the shock blanket. I wrap up like a burrito, finally allowed to slowly sit up on the gurney, swinging my legs over the side and trying to figure out what sort of head space I'm in. Am I faint? Dizzy? Hungry?

"Disappointed," I mutter. My vision is clearing steadily, fading from one special effect into normality. The flickering feeling remains, but the red and yellow speckles are deteriorating. Thank god. It was like watching a bad trip on acid.

"That's not really the kind of answer they're looking for, buddy," Steve chuckles.

"Fatigued, lightheaded," I fire off the correct answers in a monotone. "I can see, now, so that's probably a good thing, right?"

"Very good thing," says the paramedic.

"Just - based on your professional opinion," Steve is asking, "What do you think caused this, exactly?"

"It can be as simple as a drop in blood pressure combined with a strain," the paramedic replies. "It's more common than you think. Most people when they believe they are having a seizure are actually having one of these. And I'd say getting hit hard in a vital area can cause the sort of strain that would trigger one. Especially if all the blood suddenly drains to that area. This is why the tests are important - make sure its just bruising, an involuntary response to the strain, and not internal issue. Remember, I'm not a _kauka_. Go to the ER, all right?"

"Mahalo," Steve says, shaking his hand. He looks down at me. "Your call, bud."

"Let's get this over with." I stand up and feel more uncomfortable than I ever have in my life. Pants are damp and clinging, my forehead feels sort of sweaty, and I smell horrible. Steve reaches for my elbow, but I shake my head.

"Use a wheelchair when you get to the ER," the paramedic calls after us when I slowly start to shuffle towards Chin's car.

I open my mouth to protest, and Steve answers with, "You bet."

I press my lips together in a hard line as he unlocks the car and I slip into the passenger seat. Steve shuts the door, starts up the engine, and slowly pulls away from the crime scene. I do the smart thing and open up my window for fresh air, noticing Kono waving by the warehouse door. I lift my hand slightly in response. She looks worried.

I notice that my vision is entirely normal again. The evil color correction dissipated so slowly I couldn't see much of a difference till it was gone entirely. No more flickering flames of hell.

Once we're out of the industrial wastelands, Steve picks up the pace and pushes sixty-five in a forty-five zone.

"You always gotta do that, huh?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Do the thing where you're all," I make a motion to indicate bear claws.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Overly protective."

"In what way does this," Steve mimics the hand gestures, "indicate overly protective?"

"Nev'mind, you're dodging the question."

"Am I really being overprotective, here?" Steve asks indignantly. "You scared the hell out of me, man. In fact you're still scaring me."

"I'm sorry about..."

"Don't apologize," Steve replies, "I'm sure if you could help it, you wouldn't feel like hell. Right? It's not like it's your _fault._ I'm just saying let me do what I do, kay?"

"Do whatchyou do..." I repeat dryly.

"Yeah, do what I do." Steve mimics the hand gestures again.

"Both hands on wheel, please."

"You know when we do _this,_ " Steven motions his finger back and forth between us. "Tells me your head space is getting back to normal. That's gotta be good, right?"

I shrug. It's uncharacteristically silent in the car for a moment.

"Look, I'm sorry," I repeat.

"Don't apolo..."

"No, no, just lemme get this out, mkay? I'm sorry I like to bit your head off. It takes my mind off things if we do our old thing. I was pickin' a fight. For no reason."

"I don't know," Steve says with a slight smirk, "Sounds like a good enough reason to me."

"Yeah, well, you're a very nice man, but not very bright."

"Thank you." Steve's smile dissipates, and he frowns as we come to a red light.

"No, no, no, I know that look," I exclaim. "Don't even think about it."

"Think about WHAT!" Steve yipes. "I'm not thinking anything- I mean, how do _you_ know what I'm thinking?"

"I know you very well."

"How well?"

"Don't you dare put the siren on."

Steve clamps his mouth shut.

"Ah, ha! See! I knew it. You were going to put the siren on." I fold my hands together patiently. "I _appreciate_ your desire to speed up this process. I am grateful; but, I do not want to scare Grace, okay? In fact I would also greatly appreciate, um, _not_ telling her about this whole mess."

"She always senses something is up when you keep secrets."

"You don't think I don't know that? I know that. I will tell her. But not tonight. I'm going to pop in and say goodnight and then, um, we can go do whatever the hell we're supposed to do. But I want her to get a good nights sleep. She's got a presentation for science at school tomorrow. Very difficult. She's been dissecting leaves and labeling the parts for weeks."

"Uh huh," Steve says distractedly. "Well, she'll do great. She always does." He glances in the rear view mirror and changes lanes, then makes much too hard of a right into my neighborhood. "You almost had me."

"Huh?"

"Directing the conversation towards Grace. Very good. I know it helps to distract yourself when you're worried, or whatever, but I do want you to focus on you for a little while. How are you feeling right now? Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"That's it?"

"Okay? Yeah, that's the word I am using."

"You in any pain or anything? I mean I pulled you out of the car sort of quickly, tried not to let you fall on the concrete or anything..."

"What'd? Didja drop me on my head?"

"You think I would, wouldn't you? And that'd be a no. I'm very careful with my friend's heads." Steve pulls into my driveway. "Just... in general. At first you didn't want me to move you. You said your skin hurt."

"I don't remember saying that."

"He did hit you pretty hard with that pipe. Batting a thousand."

"Sure, I'm sore. It's a body ache. Like I worked out really hard or, got hit by a truck. Take your pick."

Steve turns off the car and glances at me. "All right. Good enough to walk to the house?"

"What other option do I have?" I ask, and when his eyebrows twitch, I hold up the finger saved primarily for Grace's back talking and Rachel's false accusations. "If you even remotely come close to suggesting you CARRY me indoors, I will punch your pretty face. Mkay?"

"You don't touch my moneymaker," Steve opens the car door, walks around, and opens mine. I swing my legs out and don't bother protesting when he takes my arms and helps lifts me out. I am so god damn sore.

When we get into the house, Emma is doing homework at the kitchen counter.

"Hi Mr. Williams," she says with a curious glance at the blanket.

"Hey there, ah, Emma," I say, "So I am just in here... briefly... to clean up... I have to go back into the office." I step out of sight into the hallway. "You don't mind staying longer, do you?"

"Anything past midnight and I charge an overnight rate," she calls after me.

"Done!" I reply loudly, without asking what the rate it. I don't care. I'll pay it.

Steve gives Emma a polite nod and then trots after me, following me into the bedroom. "What do you need?" he asks.

"A little privacy, please..."

"I'm just gona, uh," Steve looks around awkwardly before finding the door to the bathroom. He turns on the light for me. "I'm gona be right outside."

"I can do this, you know."

"I know," Steve heads for the door. "I just want you to _call me_ if you feel dizzy again. I _mean it."_

"Don't worry," I reply seriously. "I have you on speed dial." I shut the door quickly and lean on it for a moment. My head is spinning, but not from dizziness. A little lightheaded, sure, but with the accompaniment of weak limbs and the feeling of incompetency more than anything else. The doorframe feels cool on my forehead.

The clothes I strip off go straight into the garbage in the bathroom. Then I tie the top off, effectively cutting off any bodily odor that might emerge. I take a shower as hot as I can handle, scrubbing myself with three times the usual helping of soap. For a moment I just stand beneath the pelting water and let it hit me in the face with burning precision. Best god damn shower of my life.

When I look in the mirror above the sink, there are deep hollows under my eyes. All I want to do is crawl into bed, but I force myself to put on a long sleeved tee and a pair of jeans. Sweatpants will come later, I promise myself. Sweatpants, a cold beer, and...

The thought of a cold beer makes me sick to my stomach. Uh. Maybe not a cold beer yet.

I lean on the counter and take a closer look at the mess of my hair. Trying to smooth it back using both hands. I feel a strange pressure in my abdomen. Not pain from being hit with a lead pipe, more like a resistance. Muscle, probably. Or I am shitting myself again, but metaphorically this time.

"Not right now," I resolve not to think too deeply. "Not now. I am not doing this."

 _You're sure as hell doing this,_ my reality check kicks in. _You need to get this taken care of. You need to deal with it. Stop pretending its not happening._

A polite tap on the door. "You all right in there, man?"

"I'm good." I leave the bathroom, walk through the bedroom, and open the door. Steve has the potential to be a patient man when he needs to be.

Before we leave, I peer in through Grace's bedroom door. She fell asleep with the light on and a book open on her covers. I slip inside, brush her brown hair from her face, and give her a kiss. She mumbles something but doesn't open her eyes.

"Love you, monkey," I whisper. I fold the corner of the page she was last reading and place the book on the nightstand, then draw the covers up over her bare arm. She manages a half-asleep "Night, Danno," when I turn off the light.

"Night, baby," I reply. Something spontaneously chokes me up, and I shut her door and take a deep breath. Steve is waiting for me at the end of the hall, and I dutifully follow him, trudging along with a slow, exhausted pace. "I could literally fall asleep standing up right now," I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Steve takes this as a cue to open the car door for me again, help me inside, and hand me the seatbelt. I am too tired to protest.

As we drive to the hospital, we don't talk. I lean back against the headrest and shut my eyes. I'm so damn exhausted.

Steve turns on the radio. Ziggy Marley is on, but we arrive before I can figure out the song thats playing.

"Here, buddy," Steve is opening the car door and I'm mentally checking back into reality. It felt like I fell asleep for years without the benefit of rest. He parked on a curb and he's waiting on the sidewalk with a wheelchair.

"I'm not sitting on that," I mumble.

"Come on, the paramedic said so."

"Did not..."

"Yeah, he did. Get in here. I'm not taking no for an answer."

My glare could slice a coconut, but he doesn't care. Before I can formulate a good argument, I'm getting into the wheelchair and he's wheeling me into the ER.

"Don't you wish there's something else you could be doing on your birthday?" I ask, almost too quietly to qualify as conversational. Closer to talking to oneself.

"There's nothing else I'd rather be doing than helping you right now," Steve replies in one of his scary voices. The one you don't argue with. So I don't.

There's other people waiting. Old people. Sick people. It's surprisingly active for this time of night. I look at the others and glance away. If I had better people skills, I'd be a traffic cop, not a detective.

Steve slams his hands down on the counter. "Hi there!" he exclaims way too cheerfully. The administrator, a pretty blond, glances up from her notebook with a wide-eyed expression. "We booked a room," Steve blurts.

The administrator giggles, and I roll my eyes. At least I have better people skills than him, I think. Though he'd probably say the opposite.

"Detective Danny Williams?" asks the intake nurse, appearing behind the receptionist. "Medics called us and warned us you were coming."

"Yes, this is Detective Williams," Steve says, "I'm Steve McGarret..."

"Yes, Five O," says the intake nurse. "They told us that too. We seem to see you in here often enough."

"Never on my shift though," says the receptionist.

"I guess todays your lucky day," I say sarcastically. Her face indicates she is trying to work out if I'm flirting or not.

"We're bringing you in right away," says the intake nurse, "Go over to the door on your right. I'll meet you around there." She disappears through the door behind the counter.

Steve dutifully pushes the stroller - I mean, the wheelchair - over to the door and waits, impatiently tapping the handles. I glance back over my shoulder at an old woman waiting in a chair. She's coughing loudly. "They were here first," I say uncomfortably.

The door opens, and the intake nurse holds it open for Steve to push me through.

"I can wait, y'know," I say. "Sounds like you got a lot of sick people out there tonight."

"You're officially off duty, Mr. Williams," the nurse says. Her name tag says Lola. She's a pretty Polynesian woman, and she has a plastic flower stuck in a side braid. "So don't worry about anyone else here but yourself. The people in the lobby are either waiting for a loved one, or they are not in any serious condition. Okay?"

"Mkay," I reply uncertainly, suddenly focusing on the pattern of the linoleum. Pink square, white square, pink, white, pink, white... The hallway is uncomfortably long, opening into another waiting room, this one empty.

"You can wait here, Steve," says Lola.

"In here?" Steve repeats like a parrot.

"Detective Williams and I are going to go take care of business. Take his blood pressure, talk about medical history, blood draw, the usual. You will be more than welcome to come back when he is settled in a room."

"I'm not going to have to spend the night here, am I?" I interjected. "I've got a daughter at home right now..."

"You'll be sent home as soon as humanly possible," Lola promised, practically wresting the wheelchair handles from Steve's grip. "Someone will be out to let you know in a few moments, okay?"

"Okay," Steve answers. He pats my shoulder with a cartoonish bravado. "See you soon, pal."

"Uh huh," I say without much commitment, knowing its not true. I don't see him _soon_ in any way. After getting a blood draw, heart rate determined, blood pressure taken, and going over medical history of me, my father, my mother, and grandparents, and then reliving the brutal and disgusting details of my _episode,_ nearly forty minutes have ticked by unbearably slowly. I was declared dehydrated but otherwise stable.

Lola passes me off to a younger nurse named Kim. Kim barely looks old enough to graduate high school, much less work in an emergency room. When I ask, she says she's twenty-three and just recently graduated with a nursing degree last spring, and then passed her tests this fall. Damn. Despite looking like a college baby, Kim commands me like a war general from an old movie. Put this hospital gown on! Take your clothes off! (Though I've imagined better scenarios in which I heard those last four words).

Once I'm changed and under a thin blanket, Kim hooks me up to an IV. Not the sort of hydration I prefer. I offer to just drink a lot of water, and she brings me water, but then refuses to detach the IV.

"We had a deal," I gasp.

"You get both," she says with a smirk.

"Hey," I exclaim, "I promised to hydrate myself."

"And now you're keeping your promise. Good job." She smiles and pinches my foot through the blanket. "Your toes are cold," she says accusingly. "I told you to put the socks on."

"I don't want to wear the socks."

"Why not?"

"They're not my style."

"Are you intentionally making my job more difficult?"

"No, I just don't wanna wear 'em..."

"Put the socks on," Kim smiles, "Or I'll ask your army dude sitting outside to come in here and put them on you."

"Quick, hand me the socks," I say in a mock panic. "For the record, he's navy. That's even worse."

"I stand corrected." She smiles and hands them to me. "Trust me," she says, "In about five minutes you'll be happy you did."

"Why?" I ask suspiciously, pulling the socks on. I prefer mine colorful and never matching. Both of these socks are gray and look exactly alike. "What happens in five minutes?"

She taps the IV. "These fluids are kept in fridges. You'll feel it soon enough." She leans on the hospital beds railing. "All right, business. Scale of one to ten. Pain level?"

"Two."

"How would you describe your pain?"

"Body ache. Sore. Headache."

"How's the lightheadedness?"

"Kinda... sorta..." I seesaw my hand from side to side. "It's there but it's not there."

"Very helpful," she flashes me another grin. "I can clear some of this up for you. You're anemic."

"Anemic?" I ask. "What like uh, uh... bone marrow?"

"Thin blood," she clarifies. "You need more iron. Eat more spinach."

I make a duck-bill face with thoughtfulness. " _Spinach."_

"I'll let you think about that for a bit," she slides the curtain open. "Would you like to see your friends?"

"Yes, please, thank-you," I say humbly.

Within a moment, Steve strides in quickly as if he owns the joint, followed closely by Chin. "Hey!" I greet, a little too exuberantly. As if I missed them, or something. "Chin, you got here! Without your car. I left a window open, by the way."

"No problem, brah. Kono brought me," Chin smiles. "She's in the waiting room. They're allowing only two at a time, but she says hi and E ola aku."

"That means get well soon," Steve provides.

"Lou is out there too. Wow! You're looking good as new," Chin says easily, finding a seat and pulling it up closer to the bed. "How you feeling?"

"Slightly used, but I _look_ new," I reply.

"Ahaha," Steve forces out a painful laugh. He sits in the other chair, leaning back against the wall and stretching out his legs.

"Wow," I say. " _Someones_ settling in."

Steve holds out his hands in confused protest, and the head nurse walks in. His name tag reads Tony, and he looks all business and no fun with a clipboard and dark blue scrubs. At least Lola and Kim were wearing Hawaiian print scrubs. Plus they were lovely young women. Tony, not so much.

"Good evening," Nurse Tony pulls up the stool on the right side. "Votes are in. Vasovagal response. Similar to a seizure, but..."

"But irregular spasms," I finish tiredly. "Got that as much. I'm a little more concerned about what caused it?"

Nurse Tony glanced up at Steve and Chin. "They family?" he asks, out of habit.

"I'm his twin brother," Chin replies flatly without missing a beat. Steve snorts loudly.

I bust up laughing. I laugh so hard it hurts. Nurse Tony seems to be in a hurry, but he allows himself half a minute to smirk. "I'm guessing it's all right to discuss personal medical details in front of them," he infers.

"Mhm," I say, though part of me isn't sure. Depends on what sort of personal medical things are going on here. I'm a fairly private person, but I usually end up telling these two everything anyway. I shiver.

Nurse Tony begins to explain how a vasovagal response works, the whole blood pressure drop thing, strain, contributed to by anemia and dehydration. _Why the f*ck am I anemic and dehydrated?_ I long to scream, but I just purse my lips and nod receptively. By the end of his informational presentation, I'm polar-ice freezing. My whole body is almost numb with cold.

"We'll go ahead and do a brain scan, just as a precaution," Nurse Tony says with a winning smile. "Any questions?"

"Yes, is there a test?" I ask.

"No," he doesn't seem to fully appreciate my sense of humor. "We'll come by in another ten minutes or so when the room frees up, get you tested, and then you'll be on your way soon."

"Oohkay," I say with an equal amount of cheer, noticeably fake.

"All right, hang in there, be back soon," Nurse Tony heads out the door. "Be sure to press the button if you need _anything,_ and Kim will be by." He shuts it behind him.

I lean my head back on the pillow and take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to concentrate on warming myself up. In, out, in out. I'm colder than a polar ice plunge in the Hudson.

"What's up, man? You okay?" Steve asks. I had practically forgotten they were there.

"Oh, yeah, mhm, I'm good," I reply. "Just freezing my ass off." I'm shaking badly. Most of it is cold, part of it is the adrenaline wearing off.

"Why didn't you say so?" Chin hustles over to something that looks like a fridge, opening it up and pulling out two blankets. "Hospitals keep heated blankets."

"They're always out!"

"Not tonight they aren't." Chin unfolds them and throws them over me. "Better?"

"Dear god, so much better," I sigh contentedly. The heat is heavy, the blankets soft, my brain releasing a hold on my current stressful predicament, and my eyes drift shut almost instantly.

I dream about Grace, and she's older. Maybe sixteen, but I can't see her face, just the back of her head. She's holding Steve McGarret's hand.

"Thanks, Dad," she says.

He looks touched, but also saddened. He turns and looks at her. "Dad, huh?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," she replies. "I still miss Danno... but..."

"I know, kiddo," he gives her a hug. I still can't see her face. "I miss him too. Do you want put flowers on his grave tonight?"

She brightens up, I can see it in the lift of her shoulders. "That'd be great."

Every time I try to take a step closer to them, the further away they are.

I wake up weeping.

...

* * *

...

author note: medical inaccuracy on my part, for the sake of story... the vasovogel (ugh spelling help... I need a beta... anyone?) thing is not something I made up (though I wish I did) and it's actually sort of worse than I made it out to be in the story, ironically, for all the whump I'm milking out of it. In a story it makes more sense for things to happen in a linear order. In real life, when this happened to me, I was shitting myself, vomiting, and going blind with red and yellow static all at the SAME time. It didn't happen one at a time. FUN FACTS XD ...also, usually someone isn't both shitting and vomiting simultaneously. Usually these responses don't include those side effects. I was a rare and special flower and got to experience ALL DE SIDE EFFECTS. So... don't be too scared of this ever happening to you. It probably won't be as severe.

I feel like I can educate you on a lot of fun facts...

Jesus, am I getting addicted to fan fiction again...?

HELP!


	3. hauʻoli lā hānau

...

Hi, wow, thanks for the notes, you guys. It made me really excited about continuing, even though I don't actually know where this is going. I didn't plan this far. I am just following the writing spirit, the peace of purging my ex-cancer anxiety... this is the LET IT GO of fan fictions. Thanks for participating with me. My chemotherapy team told me that I would find crazy support outpouring from unlikely places, and I find that to be true.

xoxo

PS I don't know if there is anything about a watch in the show, as I haven't seen the sixth season and I've forgotten a lot of the season's details that I watched pre-chemo. I don't even remember if Steve's dad HAD a watch! So I am applying my own fictional liberties here.

...

* * *

I glance at the wall. No clock.

I wipe my eyes and nose on the back of my hand in a sort of nervous gesture, looking confusedly at the other wall. No clock there, either.

"Ey," I look over at the chairs. Apparently _some_ time has gone by, because now its Steve and Kono sitting against the wall, and both of them have their heads leaning back on the wall. Steve's mouth is wide open in a half-snore. Kono is snapping out of zen mode.

"Hey," she replies, her voice sort of hoarse and whispery.

"You tryin' to sleep here, or something?" I snark. "Go _home,_ Kono. Get some beauty rest! Not that you need it, of course. Just... go get some sleep. In a real bed."

Kono smiles and stands, leaning down and laying her hand on my arm. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Sleepy. You?"

"Same, but probably not as much as you," she pats there gently. "I wanted to wait till you got your tests done..."

"But they're taking a few hours," I fill in.

"It's fifteen till midnight," Kono supplies.

"It's okay. Go home."

Kono smiles gratefully, jerking her head in Steve's direction. "I'd feel bad about leaving if he wasn't here for the long haul."

"Don't feel bad for one second. I don't expect anyone to pull an all nighter on my account. We still got work in the morning."

"Ha," Kono chuckles. " _I_ do. You certainly don't."

I decide to let this one slide. "Did Chin ride up with you?"

"He drove your car," she says. "A`ole pilikia. Steve gave us the keys while you were waking up the second time around. Chin checked it out. Cleaned it up a bit, hung my little macadamia car freshener on the rear view. It's waiting in the parking lot for you."

"That's exceptionally nice of you."

"Least we could do, Danno," Kono uses the nickname affectionately, without the strand of irritation that usually comes when Steve uses it.

Steve mumbles something incoherent and sits up.

"I'm heading home, Boss," Kono says.

"G'night, Kono," Steve replies sleepily.

Kono whispers something in Hawaiian that I don't catch, slides open the curtain, and opens and shuts the door behind her.

"How're you feeling?" Steve asks.

"Impatient. We came in around... I don't know, ten?"

"Something like that."

"So we've been waiting at least two hours." I shift uncomfortably. The blankets have grown cold. "If I knew I'd be doing this, I wouldn't have just taken a long nap at home and come by in the morning."

"You know it wouldn't make much of a difference," Steve says patiently. "You know this wing... twelve hour shifts, short staffed, quiet in the evenings but still plenty of people to see. I'm sure they're doing the best they can."

"All right," I say stoically, "Who are you, and what have you done with Steve McGarret?"

Steve just gives me a tight lipped smile. "I repeat. How are you feeling?"

"Cold, sore... kind of hungry, surprisingly."

"Your eyes are blood shot."

"Lack of sleep."

"You _were_ just sleeping."

"It didn't feel like sleep."

"Didn't feel like sleep? How does that work?"

"I had a dream I died, mkay? Happy?" I mutter.

"You're not gona _die,_ Danny," Steve scolds. "Don't even think like that."

" _I'm_ not thinking like that, my subconscious mind is drudging things up. _I_ wouldn't think like _that._ I'm a positive guy."

"You are the most cynical guy I know. You're practically a walking worst-case scenario."

"I am neither of those things. I am _realistic."_

"Well, your version of _realism_ isn't exactly..."

We're interrupted by the sound of the door opening and shutting, and there's a polite tap on the doorframe before the curtain slides open. A young man whose name tag reads Ozzie gives us a strange, almost irritated look. "Sorry to interrupt," he says in a thick accent that I can't identify. "I'm gona take you in to do the x ray test now, right?" he doesn't wait for an answer. "Okay now!" he switches the bag of fluids from the IV machine to the hook on the bed, unplugs a few things from the wall, and starts to wheel me out.

"See ya on the other side," I say with a sort of gloomy indifference.

Steve doesn't even have a chance to say anything before Ozzie shuts the door.

Mere seconds pass before I decide I do not like Ozzie. Not one bit. I don't know what it is about the guy. He's sort of white, sounds like a surfer, with super thick black eyebrows that grow close to center. Looks got nothing to do with it, of course, but I mentally take count of all physical features whenever I don't like someone. I always seem to expect to see their mug shots eventually.

Nah, I don't like Ozzie because as he wheeled me out of the ER and into radiology, he bumped the side of the bed into the wall. "Ey, watch it," I bark, glancing up, and Ozzie's glazed over eyes doesn't indicate that he even heard me speak or notice his own inability to steer.

Ozzie doesn't reply. He opens the doors into the x ray room and pushes the bed inside. I am greeted with a series of signs that all sum up to DANGER, RADIOACTIVE.

"Hey, so," I start to ask a question, turning my head to notice that Ozzie leaves the room quickly, shutting the doors behind him. For a split second, I get the urgent feeling to leave immediately as I shift uncomfortably. What if this was like, their gas chamber or something?

In addition, why am I paranoid and slightly delusional?

The radiologist comes appears in a room next door that I can see through a window. She gives a friendly wave through the glass and pops through a side door. "Hi there," she greets kindly, a middle-aged woman with red hair tied back in a bun. "Ready to get your picture taken?" Name tag: Julianne.

"Oh boy," I mumble. "Yes, yes I am ready. Let's get er done, as quickly as possible? ...Please."

She takes my elbow gently. "Let's sit you up, shall we?"

"Uh huh," I reply, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Not so bad.

"Do you feel like standing?" she asks. There's a weird, mustard colored shaped box sticking out of the wall (with all the warning stickers on it) and a pair of handles sticking out of it. It looks like they haven't updated this equipment since the seventies.

"Yup," I say, standing.

"You can just place your hands on these handles."

"Mkay," I say. "So what happens if someone needs a brain scan and they _can't_ stand?"

She just laughs.

"That was a serious question."

"Just follow my instructions," she says kindly.

"I am genuinely curious."

"How is the lightheadedness?" she asks.

I am trying not to think about it. "It's there."

"How bad, on a scale of one to ten."

"Five?"

"I'll be right in the other room." She leaves me standing there, holding the handles like a steering mechanism in the cockpit of a science fiction ship. I watch her leave, unsure of what the hell _I'm_ supposed to be doing.

She reappears in the room with the window. "Can you hear me?" she says through a tiny microphone.

"Yes ma'am," I reply, trying not to sound sarcastic. It's not her fault if the whole system is weird. I feel like I'm stuck in one of those dreams where nothing makes sense and rooms change shape for no rhyme or reason. Like the kinds where a person is supposed to be your mom, and you know her as your mom, even though the face doesn't look or sound anything like them. Should I _call_ my mother? No! What the hell am I thinking? No, I should absolutely NOT call my mother. I didn't call her before when I stabbed or shot, so, I won't call her about a fainting episode and routine brain scans.

"All right. Keep your head fixed in this direction for ten seconds, and do not move. Ready?"

"Okay...?"

Ten seconds click by.

"Okay," she says. "Great. Now turn your head towards your left, looking at the other wall. And hold for ten. Ready?"

"Yup."

Another ten. I count silently.

"Good job. Now face front."

I turn my head toward the yellow box, my nose barely half an inch away from the plastic. A strange, ammonia sort of smell overwhelms me. For some reason it has an adverse affect. I nearly gag.

"Hold for ten," she says.

"Ookay," I say awkwardly. The stench is chemical in nature, but it smells dirty. As if the scent itself is caused by the mustard-yellow color. I realize how claustrophobic this makes me feel. Then, as soon as I think it, the more it overwhelms my thoughts. How long since I've felt claustrophobic?

One.

Do I feel claustrophobic right now? My stomach flip flops, and my palms start to sweat. I am half an inch away from a yellow plastic wall, and I can't see enough of my peripheral vision to make myself feel like I am not _inside_ the box.

Two.

Longest ten seconds of my _life,_ I think, somewhat angrily. Yellow, smelly plastic. Claustrophobia has bothered me before, like the time a building fell on Steve and myself, or venturing into a dark tunnel underground to apprehend a criminal. But it was OK. I dealt with it.

Three.

The lightheadedness increases. I grip the handles so hard my knuckles are white and my hands are dark red. No vision on the corners, only directly ahead into the abrupt wall that stops every breath I try to take, thrusting it back into my nostrils with yellow, angry derision.

Four.

I feel hot, and moisture begins to appear along my hairline, armpits, the back of my neck. I don't know what I am thinking anymore.

Five.

I'm supposed to hold still, right? Does this include talking? Why didn't I ask? Should I say something? What if she has to start over? I can't do this for twenty seconds. I guess I shouldn't speak. I don't want to botch the picture.

Six.

Good lord, this is taking f*cking forEVER. What if I _refuse_ a brain scan? Can I do that? I HAVE PROBABLE CAUSE FOR REFUSAL.

Seven.

It feels as if my head is slowly turning into a balloon filled with helium. Any second now, and it will float away from the rest of my body. I hope Grace enjoys having a headless father. We can dress up together for Halloween. I'll be the headless horseman, she'll be Ichabod Crane.

Eight.

I try to hold my breath, but that doesn't really help either. I press my lips together, and my brain condenses into nothingness. Back to the Nothing Box I go. _I can't breathe, oorrr..._

Nine.

I take a huge, deep breath through my nose, deprived of oxygen, and overwhelmed with the putrid scent of whatever-the-hell-the-thing-is. I needed to breathe! I couldn't even hold it for one full second! But is it worth this horrifying, decaying smell?

Ten. Finally.

"I'm going to pass out," I say with a muffled voice.

"Sit down slowly," instructs the radiologist, dashing out of the room with the window, and reappearing at my side. "All right," she says. "Don't worry. Let's get you sitting back down, okay?"

"Mkay," I mumble. "I don't want to pass out again."

"You'll be fine," she assures kindly, "Just focus on my voice. We're laying down now, okay? How does that feel?"

I feel a thump and the soft blanket, and I'm examining the ceiling. I'm not passing out. I'm lightheaded and the feeling of non existing in my own body slowly deteriorates into reality. I can feel my hands and feet and my head. My hearts racing with apprehension, but I am _not_ passing out. I am laying back on the stretcher, and the blood is rushing back to my head. _I've got this sonofabitch. I've got this._

"Better, huh?" she asks.

"Much better, thank you," I reply gruffly.

"Do you know what suddenly triggered the lightheadedness?" she asks.

I point at the yellow box. "That things smells _awful._ Smells like someone died on it."

She glances at it with raised eyebrows.

"Come on," I exclaim, "You can't tell me _no one_ has complained about the smell before."

"You're the first," she says oddly, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

"Really - I'm the first - Oh that's uh, that's very nice," I mumble. "So I'm the first to be disturbed to the point of losing consciousness by a yellow box that smells awful. Great. Wonderful."

She leans forward and smells it, and steps back.

"Don't you smell that?" I ask.

"No, I don't really smell anything," she says brightly, "So, you just relax. Let me finish up in there, and then Ozzie will be back for you. Just _say the word_ if you feel lightheaded again. I'll come back. All right? Feeling all right?"

"All right," I repeat. If you don't say it five times, it must not be true.

I lay there in silence taking deep, shaking breaths. With a cheery "All right, you're all done!" her head disappears from the window, and I'm left alone again.

The door bangs open, hitting the wall behind it. Ozzie marches in and I can practically hear the funeral dirge that plays in his head wherever he goes. With furrowed eyebrows, he frowns as he pushes the bed back through to the hallway. The pace is agonizingly slow, as if he wants to savor the length of the hall between radiology and the emergency wing.

"Don't you got someplace to be soon?" I joke, and again, Ozzie doesn't even answer. He hits the button for the ER doors and avoids eye contact. "You got somethin' you wana say?" I say, a little louder. Ozzie shrugs as if I asked him for the time when he doesn't have a watch.

When he pushes me back into the room, Steve is facing the back wall, cell phone to his ear and furiously shouting orders. I catch _Then delay the DA!_ and _What do you MEAN the charge won't stick?_ finally followed by a, _We've got him on drug possession and illegal arms, then! Make it happen. Eventually the murder charge will surface._

Ozzie escapes through the door again before I threaten to 'keep my eye on him'. Steve hangs up and opens his mouth for a rant, before closing it again.

"What the hell was that about?" I ask.

"Oh that? That's nothing," Steve lies. "How are you? You don't look... great. I mean, you look fine. Totally fine."

"Wouldja please stop that?" I exclaim. "You're worse than my mother. Who was on the phone?"

Steve sits beside the bed and laces his hands together in a clenching, impatient manner. "Remember our POI we just busted?"

"Obviously."

"There is a lack of evidence for when he shot his brother in the apartment they shared - he claims to have the alibi for being at that hotel party and not at home. So all we have him on are weapons charges and being present at a drug sale."

"But we can place him at the crime scene with physical evidence," I argue.

"The DA is pushing for circumstantial."

"It's not circumstantial!"

"It is if his fingerprints came from an earlier, playful scuffle with his brother like he claims."

I slam my hand down on the blanket with frustration, but it does little than make a gentle _thump_ sound. "With a drugs and weapons charge, he'll be out on parole in five years, maybe less with good behavior. That places anyone around him in danger."

"The psychologist is willing to testify to a violent pattern."

"But still, it's a mental assessment, not evidence," I say. "Have any of his rape victims agreed to come forth?"

"The three previous women are speculative, but none of them wish to step out. They're refusing to speak with officers. The only lead we had was the university security remembering the complaints fitting his description."

I ticked off the items on my fingers. "So the guy gets stirred into a violent and sexual frenzy throughout his college years where he is suspected of two university murders, and three possible cases of sexual assault..."

"...and when his drug-abusing brother is released from prison after a decade," Steve fills in, "they get an apartment together and his brother uses his prison connections to get him a job as a security detail for the drug sales with small-time lords in his district... which is the only thing we have _proof_ of."

"And his brother won't say anything about their _scuffle..."_

"That's why Lou just called. He died in surgery. He won't be able to either confirm or deny who shot him."

I curse loudly, and the room falls silent.

"So we'll be watching him," Steve promises. "We get a decade, maybe less, of rest from this guy. At least he is off the streets. When he's released..."

"I just _hope_ he slips up," I vow, "I swear to god, if he gives us one good reason to look twice at him..."

"We've got him for something," Steve says, "At least - at the very least! - he will be in the penitentiary. Female students on the island will be safe from him." Steve settles back in his chair. "There. I did my part. How about you?"

"Scuse me?"

"How'd the test go?"

"It was weird. That kid was weird. I wouldn't be surprised if his picture came up on our screens someday, he wouldn't talk or anything..."

"I didn't know you were in such a hurry to chat with the nurses."

"I wasn't, mkay? Don't put words in my mouth. He was weird."

"Okay, so, he was weird. I got it. How are you?"

I shrug. "The lightheadedness was worse, so, not so good. I'm exhausted. I just want to go home to my daughter."

"We'll get you home soon enough."

I glance down at Steve's clothes. There's a dark pattern of where he scrubbed off the vomit with wet paper towels. He forgot his shoes.

"There's still vomit on your shoes," I comment.

"I'll clean them when I go home."

"Go home now."

"I can't," Steve grins suddenly, "I don't have a ride."

"So, use mine. I'll walk home."

"Are you even hearing yourself right now? I'd pin you for stubborn, maybe even delusional, but never stupid."

"Ahah," I fake laugh.

The door opens again and Nurse Tony is back. "One more test," he says, and he's wheeling in a weird contraption with those things that stick to your chest and monitor rates and connect to the machine with red and blue cords. Steve, in a strange show of letting me have some privacy, offers to step out and buy me an orange juice from the vending machine. I couldn't give a damn about what I am eating or drinking, but I find myself saying yes. The cords attach to my chest with adhesive and the machine beeps, and then they're removed. The whole process takes only moments, and then Tony leaves again.

For some reason, the normality at which the test is conducted with almost zero explanation (as if they expect a detective to know what it is just because of the line of work we're in) I find myself fading into a surreal, perplexed and irritated state. I feel distracted, tired, and on edge. The adrenaline is kicking up again. I find myself trying to recall every detail, rather obsessively, of my whole seizure thing. It _did_ happen right? I didn't imagine it. Steve was right there throughout the whole thing.

Steve returns with two bottles of orange juice. The fake kind that tastes like SunnyD without the benefit of actually being SunnyD. He hands one to me, and I open it, and take a swig. It's too sugary. I replace the cap, and Steve takes it from my hands wordlessly, setting it on the counter without question.

I don't know what it is about my obtuse, irritating, stubborn and pain-in-the-ass partner. Somehow he senses that my head space is going south again. He doesn't try to chatter my ear off, he doesn't give me reason to argue with him as I usually do. He doesn't push me or my buttons. Instead he sits beside me quietly, tossing a magazine onto the hospital bed. He opens one about guns and ammo. Mine is celebrity gossip. I am not entirely sure he thought that one through.

We both sit silently, pretending to read. Eventually the magazine flops onto my face, and I realize I had dozed off again.

"I know you're exhausted, man," Steve assures quietly. "We'll be home soon, buddy. I promise."

Nurse Tony is opening the door, and he's smiling. "Good news," he says, "Results are normal." He sits on the stool beside the bed again. "Your brain is in excellent working condition."

"Maybe you should check it again," Steve jokes, and I find myself snorting. The man can be funny sometimes, given the right circumstances.

"Oh that's uh, good news," I say, not really expecting anything else, and yet it feels anticlimactic and non conclusive.

"Given the episode, of course, we just looked into your brain as a precaution, and the results of your blood test were our primary focus. Numbers looked pretty good, a little high on the CBC count - that is, your white blood cells, which can be high as the result of an infection or bacteria."

"So if I've got a cold or somethin'," I start to suggest. Grace came home with a cold a few weeks ago.

"Sure, sure, a cold or something," Tony supplies, "It wouldn't trigger the sort of response you had, but it could indicate there's a bug or something going around."

I think about the bathroom counter, and then I don't.

"So your white blood count is higher than average, enough to notice," Tony says. "So our recommendation is that this was an anomaly and everything is good, but to continue to monitor your health and safety, we've submitted our results to your primary physician and he'll likely be giving you a call to set up a follow up appointment. They're likely going to tell you it's influenza. That's my personal opinion, however, and not an official diagnosis. Just my thought due to the lightheadedness, the vomiting, and the high WBC count." He folded his hands together conclusively. "And that's all I've got for you. Any questions?"

 _Why do I feel like I'm going to die? A certainty outside of the usual paranoia and worry? Why is my brain telling me that something is wrong when, clearly, according to you, everything is all right?_

"No questions," I say with a relieved smile. I am a f*cking good actor and Steve wouldn't even know that I was worried. "Now, can I go home now?"

"Absolutely. I'll send Kim in to get you unattached from everything. Take care, sir," Tony shakes my hand. "And thank you for all you do. Making our island a safer place."

"Mhm," I say.

Steve shakes his hand as well. "And thank you for all you do," he says graciously, "We wouldn't be able to do what we do without your personnel having our backs when one of us is down. We appreciate it."

Tony leaves. I can see him through the curtain as he returns to the nurse's station. He removes his gloves, throws them away. Speaks with another nurse. They laugh about something. He gestures to the computer. It's a menial thing, but I'm watching like it's daytime soaps.

Somehow suffering an _anomaly_ makes me notice strange details as if they were clues in a huge murder investigation, when they're nothing important at all.

Kim returns to the room and cheerfully runs through the script of _you all take care of yourselves_ and unhooks me from the IV. She politely escorts Steve from the room so that I can change. I'm still lightheaded, but not enough for any one to still worry.

I take my time getting changed. Putting my pant legs one leg at a time seems more than just a funny phrase that famous people use to associate themselves with normal people. I literally have to think it through; first this leg. Then that leg. Stand, zipper, button, belt, buckle.

I emerge with a sort of sideways limp and tug on the right back belt loophole of my pants, another nervous gesture I have when I am thinking too hard about something that worries me.

Steve's leaning against the counter of the nurse's station, muscular arms folded over his chest. "You ready?" he asks, as if we were just heading out to get dinner.

"Yup," I respond, giving a slight chin lift to the modge-podge team working that night. Each played a small part in my health, and yet I hope I never see them ever again.

...

Kono had taken Chin home. Lou was sitting in the waiting room, as was Jerry, of all people. Not sure I _deserved_ the visit from Jerry, considering he thought there were illegal alien experimentations going on in the basements of this very hospital.

I tiredly wave off their concerned greetings. "S'all good, sa'll good," I say, heading for the door. "Thanks for bein' here, really, I would say more - but - got a kid to get home to - thank-you."

"Hope you feel better!" Jerry calls with a childlike tone. Lou pauses Steve, and Steve gives him a whispered evaluation of his own that probably had nothing to do with what Nurse Tony actually said.

The night air has an uncharacteristic chill to it. Bad weather from the ocean was moving south, last I heard, but it was coming from the northern pacific. It gave the air something more akin to the Atlantic, which I savored. It reminds me of Jersey.

Steve catches up to me. "Let's get you home," he says.

"Yeah," I say, "Thanks."

I feel next-to-normal on the car ride home. Steve's truck is parked on the curb where he left it earlier, before our bust, a bust that now landed our prime suspect with a charge that barely came up to par with his worst sins. To say I was disappointed was an understatement. The man was an animal in every sense of the word, especially to his alleged victims. He belonged in the worst cage imaginable for life, without possibility of parole. But he'd likely get parole if he played his cards right.

I unlock the door and find Emma stretched across the couch, holding her history book open above her face. The local news is on television, the headline at low volume. _Police officer down at the site of a drug bust; EMTs on site but it appears the officer was not transported in the ambulance. The Five-O task force did not release his or her name. We have word that the primary suspect in a series of university attacks was present at this drug sale and was arrested, along with three other criminals with multiple records..._

Emma wasn't paying attention to what was on TV. She sits up and closes her book, using the remote to turn the TV off. "Hi Detective Williams," she blinks sleepily.

"Hi Emma. How's it goin'?"

"Good, you?"

"Good, good. Tell me - what's the damage?"

"One hundred even."

"That's all, huh?" I pull a bill out of my wallet and hand it over. "you're cutting me a break." I look at the clock. "Drive safe."

"You too." Emma replies. She giggles and pockets the one hundred dollars. "Well. I guess. You should, if you were driving anywhere. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." She heads out the door, and I expect Steve to follow, but he's sitting on the couch and taking his shoes off.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Bunking down for the night," Steve grins, pulling off his second shoe.

"Nuh uh, nope, no, and no," I pick his shoe off the floor and thrust it back into his hands. "I do not need a babysitter! You're going home."

Steve shrugs. "Would you tell someone too exhausted to drive to get behind the wheel? It's just as bad as driving intoxicated."

My mouth is half open in protest, and I can hardly bring myself to argue. I don't even have the energy. "Fine," I say darkly. " _Fine._ I do not ask for nor condone your lack of self control maintaining control over everyone else. So you want to make sure I don't fall over when I pee in two hours? Fine! Suit yourself. I'm done." I hold up my hands in mock surrender. "Sleep well." I open up a cupboard and pull out a fleece throw and guest pillow, winding them up in my hands and tossing the bundle at Steve, who catches it with another happy grin.

"Why are you smiling?!" I bark.

Steve points at a wrapped present on the counter. "Is that for me?"

I whirl and look at the gift that Grace and I had wrapped that afternoon. _To Uncle Steve,_ reads the tag, _from Gracie and Danno._ We were going to give it to him tonight when we met up at the Hilton for his birthday...

"Oh, Jesus," I say, feeling horrible. "I'm sorry, mkay? I forgot. Again." I use my hands expressively, as usual, moving them from side to side as if trying to illustrate a calendar. "We were going to give it to you _tonight,"_ hands to the left, "but it looks like we'll have to raincheck..." hands to the right.

"Can I open it now?" Steve asks. A kid with candy.

"Sure, yeah, I guess, why not," I pick the gift off the counter and hand it to him, leaning against the edge of the table. Steve rips the tissue paper out of the bag and pulls out a watch. It's got a little bit of rust on it, and the glass has been replaced. But he recognizes it instantly.

"This is my father's watch that he wore for work," Steve whispers.

"Yeah, um," I itch my nose awkwardly. He might cry. _I_ might cry. Oh well. "When we were looking into the McCallun case, I had to go back and check the evidence from your, uh, dad's death, since he was the arresting officer back in '81. I saw this in an evidence bag and um, well, I went and tore a new one in the guy who was supposed to return the effects to you. Turns out they thought it belonged to the killer, not your Dad. Left behind as a tease without any of his fingerprints on it. But, I checked with Chin, and he confirmed it was your Dad's."

Steve is moved. He touches the watch face tenderly, and glances up at me. "Thanks man," he says, a bit choked up, standing up and giving me a hug. "I love you, man. Thank-you. Really."

I pat his back. "Love you too. And you're welcome."

"Go to bed," Steve says, trying to send me out of the room so he can shed a tear without me watching.

"Happy birthday," I reply, waving a hand casually in his direction as I walk back to the bedroom. When I am in the darkened bedroom, I shut the door and lean against it. What a weird night. It doesn't get much weirder than this.

* * *

...

dear readers, I was in such a good headspace when I _started_ this chapter a week ago. (hence such a cheerful note at the beginning, and a not-so-cheerful note tonight... While I was trying to write and feel peaceful I realized I had to go back and collect all my medical expenses and total them together for taxes (tis the tax season, yay!)

... flipping through my check book, I can see the pattern, I made notes when I purchased foods at the store to counter my symptoms when I thought I had a food allergy. I can see when I purchased juice and other constipation relieving fruits when the tumor started to press all my innards together, cutting off their effectiveness, before I knew the tumor was there. I am flipping through the pages with this growing dread like I'm watching a scary movie. The eerie music starts and their going down the dark hallway and you're like NO! don't go THAT way! that's how it feels... now I'm tallying up all my payments so far and trying not to cry and reliving the worst of it in my head... now I just feel awful. and I was feeling so GOOD too. it's triggering traumatic flashbacks, stuff I felt like I was getting rid of by writing this story, and now it's all just flooding back. I don't know, guys. it feels so hopeless over here. even with the cancer gone. It's like watching the worst moments of your life on screen over and over. Yep, another 15 bucks for meds. then 90 bucks for meds. then one seventy for x rays. then 50 for the copay. then another 50 copay. then my first few surgery payments... etc etc... it goes on and on. but with each clinical number comes an emotion and a memory that has nothing to with money and everything to do with knowing I was making these payments and wondering if I was going to die and who would pay them if I died...

Any of you ever felt that way? well, you're not alone. it sucks. I feel you.


	4. Menehune

...

 _Dear reviewers,_

 _Wow, thanks so much for the incredibly sweet and thoughtful reviews. I keep thinking about this fic, and wanting to come back to it. So I'm following that inspiration. Let it go where it will!_

 _I had the chance to go to Hawaii for the first time this month, and my life is forever changed. It was beautiful, I fell in love with it. I got to see a lot of Five-O settings, which made me absolutely geek out. I went to the FIVE O HEADQUARTERS - Iolani Palace! Words cannot even begin to describe how I felt walking their grounds and seeing it in person._

 _But, I have a little side note for you... I earned a new nickname on the trip - guess what it was?_

 _Danno._

 _I think that speaks for itself, but I'll write down a little "scenario" that happened during the trip that sort of explains what gave me the nickname. I have both a funny story and a scary story for you, which I'll share at the end of the chapter._

 _Please enjoy this chapter._

 _\- "Danno"_

* * *

 _..._

I don't remember waking up in the middle of the night. I'm suddenly aware of my legs swinging over the side of the bed with gymnast-like speed, and I'm sitting on the edge of my mattress, feet planted firmly on the floor.

I'm gasping for air... for what? Why? Why did I wake up?

The answer comes in a feeling I knew all too well... the feeling of being stabbed in the abdomen. Yeah, yeah, I know. Long story. Girlfriend and I had a weekend retreat, girlfriend's angry murderous abusive ex boyfriend showed up, he attacked us, he grabbed a knife...

Again.

A knife draws back, invisible in the black, and plunges forward into my belly. Again. The blade withdraws, my hands are shaking, I am struggling to find the switch on the bedside lamp.

 _Again._ The pain is brutal, a solid, sharp pain of metal tearing something apart with every invasion, my heart pounds like a heart attack about to cave in and make the whole thing disappear.

The light is on, and I'm sitting there, a hand pressed to my chest and waiting out the pain. I've never felt anything... like this... before... It's worse... the knife incident wasn't deep, it was painful, but not deep... we were able to drive away, Amber and I, we got away... I got fixed up... end of story. I mean, she drove over the guy. Pretty badass. And then we...

AGAIN.

I'm literally shaking so hard I can't see my phone. I should be picking it up right now. I should be dialing 911. I know enough to know this isn't... it's not... it's not okay, this isn't normal, this shouldn't be happening right now... this isn't ghost pain. This isn't a dream. This isn't a side effect.

This is something invasive, latching itself to me, claws like knives digging into somewhere deep inside of me... so deep in the _interior_ of who I am that it feels as much as a mental attack as it does a physical one.

Again.

 _Oh, god, make it stop,_ I'm literally praying, begging, to something I don't take much stock in. McGarret, he's the faithful one. Has some sort of deep respect for the beliefs of others, even when he doesn't believe in it himself. He's almost like a chameleon that way. When we work with someone who puts their faith in prayers, he has a high respect for it. Something about being brought up in Hawaii I guess.

I mean, I'm from Jersey. I have no reason to believe that my words can be heard by anyone except myself.

 _STAB._ Again.

 _STAB._

 _STAB._

A blade. In, and out. In, and out. I can't move. I'm frozen.

 _Pick up the damn phone,_ I think. _Call 911. Do it. Just reach over and grab it._

But I can't move, I'm physically incapable.

This must be what it feels like to die while being entirely conscious.

Then suddenly; I'm not in any pain. Just as quickly as that. It still feels like I lived a scene from the Walking Dead where the zombies literally plunge their dirty hands into someone's chest cavity and begins pulling out their entrails for their consumption...

I'm sore. I'm exhausted beyond words.

I fall sideways into bed, clutching my stomach, trying to prove to myself that it hasn't just been emptied by a bunch of zombies.

 _Pick up the phone._

I don't pick up the phone.

 _Go back to the hospital..._

I force myself to go back to sleep, instead. Maybe I am an idiot. Maybe I should have known something then. Maybe I won't know what happened in the morning.

Part of me hopes that I'll forget.

...

And just like that, Hawaiian sun is streaming through the window. It's a school morning, so I'm awake with the coffee, even without an appetite. Gracie is diving around the kitchen, pulling her biology project out of the fridge where she decided the leaves would be kept safe overnight. I didn't try to convince her otherwise, for once. Let her put the damn nature stash in the fridge.

I chalk up last night's pain to a really vivid nightmare, and by the time I am calmly drinking coffee, I almost believe it.

"MORNING," Steve comes in and he's been... somewhere. Back home already? It's barely seven. He's jogged, showered, changed, and wearing a different pair of shoes.

"Didn't I lock that door?" I muse out loud, sipping my coffee.

"Trying to keep me out?" Steve laughs, and dodges Grace as she dashes by at full speed.

"Hey-ey-hey, what'd I tell you about runnin' in the kitchen, huh? You a road runner or somethin'?" I ask. "You're not late. You're okay. Just take it slow, alright?"

"Sorry, Danno!" Grace disappears in the bathroom and the door slams loudly.

"Why don't you let me take her to school this morning?" Steve offers casually.

"Is that why you came back this morning?"

"Partially. Also I'm giving you the day off..."

"I know Kono reminds you you're the boss on a daily basis, but technically, as partners, we have an equal ground here so... that's going to be a no."

"You aren't coming into work today, Danny. And that's final." Grace runs out of the bathroom again, and with a look at me that looks guilty as hell, she slows her pace and calmly gets a glass of orange juice.

"Hey," I start to say suspiciously.

"So how'd you sleep last night?" Steve asks.

I don't answer. "Excuse me, Miss," I say loudly to Gracie. "What is that?"

"What is what?" Grace asks, keeping her back to me as she sips her juice.

"You know what," I say. "Turn around right now."

"Why?"

"Grace..."

Gracie turns around and her eyes are as wide as saucers as she makes eye contact. She has a very specific look when she is guilty of something or hiding something from me... most people would call it a vacant, even dumb, expression. Her eyes go very, very big, her mouth shrinks to a small thin line, and her cheeks are hallow with held breath. It makes her look like a big, adorable mouse.

A mouse caught in a pantry. I know that look better than I know the back of my hand.

It takes me a moment to figure out what's different.

Mascara.

My baby is wearing mascara. Oh my god.

"What the hell is that all over your eyelashes, huh?" I ask. "What is that?"

Steve suddenly zeroes in, and makes a graceful exit as if he suddenly needs to check on something in the living room.

"Grace," I repeat. "What is that?"

"Makeup," she says in a teeny-tiny voice from a very thin mouth barely opening.

"I can see that, why are you wearing it?"

"Mom said I'm old enough to apply very light makeup for important presentations and meetings," Grace rattles off the information quietly as if she had to commit it to memory early on. "It appears professional and it will boost my confidence."

"Not in this house, go wash it off."

"Mom said you would say that."

"Oh yeah? Then why are you wearing it?"

"She said that she would discuss it with you."

"Well, she didn't. So until we have that discussion, you're not wearing it. You're too young."

"I am NOT too young!" Grace suddenly erupts, a tell-tale whine that _usually_ shows up during discussions like this is surprisingly absent. "Mom said I had to stand up to you. I am a young woman," she recites, "And I have a presentation today and pleasing aesthetics is half my grade. I am wearing light mascara and a professionally cut jacket." She holds up a blue blazer that Rachel had sent her over with for the week. I just thought it was a nice coat.

 _Pleasing aesthetics._ Damn, Rachel. I'm pretty sure the teacher was just hoping that half her students would shower before their presentation, not try to recreate a Vogue magazine on their faces.

Suddenly, the Rachel-induced monologue stops, and Grace is back in full-on Gracie mode. "It's not fair," she says. "You can tell me who to see, and where to go, and embarrass me about every little thing, but you can't wash this off my face unless you try to drown me, so..." she picked up her cardboard with the leaves stapled to it. It _is_ a very nice presentation. "I'm going to school. Okay?"

"Don't you walk out that door," I say in a dark tone. She stops at the entrance to the living room. I walk around the counter and kneel in front of her, putting my hands on her shoulders.

"Listen to me, monkey," I say, "I'm not going to shove your face in a sink just to make you quit wearing that junk. You got that?"

She nods gloomily.

I have more to say. I have _so_ much more to say. _You're grounded for taking that tone with me... your mom and I will have discussions all right, you bet your ass we will... you are not allowed to leave the house with that mascara on and good luck getting a grade if you don't show up... what the hell is wrong with you... what the hell is wrong with me..._

I settle for kissing her forehead. "I love you, okay? You know that, right?"

She's surprised. "Love you, too," she says, unsure about this abrupt cooling off.

"Uncle Steve is driving you to school today."

"Okay," she says, with characteristic pause. "Are you mad, Danno?" And suddenly, she's seven years old again. I can hear the childish whine - one that I've missed more often than not.

"No, no, I'm not mad," I pull her into my arms and hug her too hard. "I forget how quickly you're growing up, sometimes, is all. Knock 'em dead. You'll do a great job."

I send her into the living room. Steve is twirling his car keys.

"Ready, kiddo?" he asks cheerfully.

"Ready," Grace replies.

"See you later," Steve says to me, and something on his face looks sort of prideful. Not the annoying kind, either. More like he's proud of me.

...

I don't answer my phone, but I listen to a voicemail from my doctor that afternoon.

 _Hey there, I heard you had a bit of excitement last night! Though not so much fun, I hear... the ER faxed all your test results over this morning and can I just say - man! That WBC count is a little high! What HAVE you been doing to yourself? Haha... do us a favor and call up reception and make an appointment to see me, okay? I'm going to admit you are the patient that gives the most trouble - haha! You hear me? Call us up, let's get a follow-up appointment in, okay? We'll both sleep much better at night! Talk to you soon - office number is 808 999 APPT. Okay? See you soon. Don't wait on this one._

My doctor is an annoyingly cheerful man, grandfather of two and optimistic enough to believe the Arizona will "rise again". It didn't seem like much of a big deal till the last five words. _Don't wait on this one._ Why THIS one? What was with the tone change? Why did, the man of a cheerful thousand smiles, sound a little worried? The man was never worried!

His worry knocked around my worry, uprooting it out of my imagination and letting it clutch at the real-world thinking in my brain. Worry was clingy, a wet towel on a windy day.

And to avoid the possibility of having those worries justified, I avoided calling the receptionist. Even when he left me two more voicemails a week later. I forced myself to forget about it - to forget about everything. Nah, I didn't want to think about it. If I decided I didn't want to care, then maybe no one else would, either.

But the next week... and the week after that... its time to put a label on what I'm doing. I'm delaying the inevitable. Acting like a child to avoid being an adult.

The only thing that forces me to pick up the phone is imagining Steven's face if I don't anything at all. The man would give birth to a cow.

I wait till its one of Rachel's week's with Gracie before calling the office. No answer! What a relieving coincidence! I leave a vague voicemail, garble my number, and hang up in less than ten seconds.

It's my day off, and no one is bothering me... yet. I click on Netflix to check and see what my daughter has been watching lately. Mostly cheesy romantic films. A few Disney movies. Two ABC family shows about girls that sorta look like twins but their not and I'm pretty sure they're being shared by two families or something. Then there's the ones about the _really_ annoying cops in the 70s doing their thing and people are always like "Oh my gosh is that what it's like?" to which I say NO! It's really NOT!

She's about ten minutes into a movie called _Bring it On._ Out of unbridled curiosity I am about to hit _resume play_ when my cell rings. It's the doctor's office.

No! You're supposed to ignore my call like a real shitty receptionist is supposed to do!

"Heallaoh," I drawl in a lazy tone. "Who's this?"

She tells me who she is and where she's calling from.

 _Say 'wrong number',_ urges my brain.

"Yes, you've reached Mr. Williams," I find myself saying instead. _Damnit._ I pick up a notepad from the end table and scribble on it. "Uh, yeah... well... I work that day. I mean, sure, I guess, if it's the only spot. I could get some time off. Naw, it's all good. Yeah. Thanks. Right. Got it. One P.M., Wednesday. See ya."

All right... so I have a week of plausible deniability left.

The moment I end the call, I know instinctively that I'm going to lie about this. When I need to tell my partner that I need to leave early, I will tell him literally anything except what I am going to be doing. And not really for any good reason, either, except the man is dangerous when worried, and I'm not in the mood for entangling with explosive devices with an audience.

For once, I just want to get through some shit. Alone. Without having my best friend too close to the shrapnel in case this whole thing blows up in my face.

...

Lou's SWAT team supports us the following day during another raid. There seems to be an alarming amount of them lately... drugs are prevalent, yes, but lately it's been more noticeable. And the people we're arresting seem to be getting younger and younger.

This time it doesn't actually involve a shoot out. I'm relieved when they don't, and usually my relief is for Grace's sake, but this time its for me. I am too fatigued for shooting. Too tired to think about dodging bullets. Wondering if I have the physical capability of dodging those bullets when they do come. What if I'm too slow for this stuff?

We celebrate our success (several hundred _bricks_ of drugs seized, fourteen arrests, ten confessions out of the fourteen, and three leads towards more suppliers) by getting drinks at the Hilton. One of our usual spots - outdoor tables, a warm breeze coming from the south, supplanting the cold air trying to siphon from the nearby ocean. The palms rattle, and the tikis are lit at sunset by a beefy man blowing a conch shell and carrying a torch. Ah, traditions.

Everyone makes it tonight; Steve, Chin, Kono, Lou, Jerry, Kamekona, Abby, Max, and my... questionably blood-related nephew Eric. They really need to stop inviting him to these things if he continues to sexually harass Kono.

It feels like the family has grown lately. Less intimate. But _more_ , and better, somehow.

"Heard you were on the news, Uncle D," Eric says with a mouthful of french fries.

"Oh really?" choruses several voices.

"Ah, no," I sidestep quickly. "Different officer. Ey, uh, Kono, how's Adam doin'? Heard from him lately?"

"I think someone's trying to avoid telling us what happened," Eric exclaims, like he caught a man on a diet double fisting chocolate cake.

"Well, that's just the thing," Kono says smoothly. "It's an ongoing investigation. Danny can't really talk about his end of it."

"Oh, yeah, sure, cool," Eric holds both hands up in surrender, and nervously swallows the french fries. "No problemo here. I'll hear more about it at work, probably."

"Let's hope not," I say coolly.

"Adam's doing _great,"_ Kono adds, far too eagerly. She realizes how silly it sounds... after all, the man is in jail. He's probably not doing _that_ great.

"Prison time i'no picnic, sista," Kamekona reminds Kono with a wise sort of nod. "I should know!"

Yeah, especially if you end up in prison somewhere in _South America._ Cough.

"Adam is a strong guy," Steve pushes before the conversation can go south. "Next time you talk to him, tell him we miss him and we look forward to having him back, okay?"

"Yeah, will do," Kono promises.

I turn to talk to Chin and Abby, but they're canoodling. I tune into Max's conversation instead, where he holds a disgusted Lou and fascinated Jerry absolutely spellbound.

"It was then that I hypothesized that the liver had, in fact, been sabotaged."

"I'm sorry," Lou laces his fingers together as if praying for his answer, "But how does one _sabotage_ a liver?"

"Someone deliberately injected a syringe of alcohol to give the appearance of toxicity," Max relayed happily, his mouth pinched in a teeny tiny smile of pride. I grimace in disgust. It's sort of getting hot out here.

"So how were you able to prove that?" Jerry asks. He loves a good conspiracy.

"The computer told me, naturally, that the alcohol content was very high," Max went on, "Too high to be realistically plausible. So I examined the liver in person and found it to be impossibly saturated... Grasping a portion of the liver, like this," he used his hamburger patty as an example, "And squeezing, let loose so much alcohol I could fill a phial with it..."

"Or a shot glass," Lou jokes. I feel my face getting heated. Did you guys HAVE to bring this up while we're tryin' to enjoy a good meal here?

"Yeah, hang up the white coat and you could become a licensed alcoholic drink mixer," Jerry suggests.

"You would certainly die if you drank the alcoholic fluid straight from the liver," Max protests, not sure if offended or confused. "That would be, as they say, _the end."_

It most certainly is the end for me!

"'Scuse me," I mutter, casually stepping out of my seat and maneuvering back through the tables towards the interior. I find the hall to the bathrooms and slip inside, politely averting all attention from the other men at the urinals (why are there so many of them?!) and going into a stall. For a moment I stand in the stall, wondering what I'm doing in here. I feel sort of... funny... my stomach cramps, and my whole digestive system contracts and I am kneeling on the linoleum.

I vomit every last ounce of dinner. The burger, the fries I stole from Steve, the Blue Hawaiian, the slice of pineapple. End of the year sale! Everything must go!

It all goes. My throat burns horrifically and I'm coughing and barfing and making a hell of a lot of noise. Disgusting.

Other users of the bathroom discreetly whisper and get out as quickly as possible. Someone snorts with laughter. The door swings. Most exit. Someone enters.

When dinner goes, whatever is left goes. I spy something that looks like the salad from lunch. Apparently I've been hangin' onto that for a little while.

I'm slumping on the edge of the toilet seat, heaving what little I could possibly heave. All that's left is stomach acid. Water. Probably the only hydration I have left in my body. The bile I vomit is the most acidic, and the most painful. The lining of my throat screams.

Then I'm dry heaving, then it's nothing. I got nothing left. I'm exhausted and my armpits and neck are damp with sweat.

There's a small tap on the stall door. "You okay in there?"

Chin's voice on the other side. _Shit._ That means this will end up back to Steve at some point. I could just... not answer. Yeah. That's a good idea.

I don't say anything, I just clear my throat.

"Danny."

"Yes, yes, it's me."

"Are you okay?"

"Uh huh! Yeah! I'm good!" I flush for like... the fourth time. I resist the urge to press my forehead into the toilet seat. It can't be sanitary, but a cool ceramic touch would feel nice right now. I straighten and slide the lock over, leaving the stall and avoiding Chin's expectant look.

"You're sure you're okay?" Chin asks when I don't say anything. I head straight to the sink and wash my hands vigorously.

"Yeah... just, uh, somethin' didn't sit right with Max's lecture on liver liquids, haha..."

There's a silence. A thoughtful pause, and I know I'm not going to like where his thoughts are going.

"We've seen plenty of terrible things because of our job," Chin says carefully. "Seen and heard things too much for any normal person to handle. So have you."

"Uh huh...?"

"It seems strange that one of Max's monologues would be the source for feeling so sick."

I rip paper towels with a little too much ferocity, running a handful under the sink until they're damp and deteriorating. I mash it against the back of my neck, wiping beneath the hair and cooling my face. "Yeah, well, I think he underestimates just what goes for proper dinner conversation topics."

"I'm more concerned because of what happened a few weeks ago."

"I don't want to think about a few weeks ago."

Chin has the skeptic look, like he just _can't_ believe you aren't about to take his advice. His eyes widen a little and he says with finality, "I know plenty of people stretched too long and stressed too hard brought down by something as small as a flu bug. Or sometimes the symptoms are ignored too long and it turns into an ulcer; or it's something totally different, like a heart condition!"

"I don't have a heart condition."

"Sure, you don't, but maybe it's time you thought about some extra time off."

"Can you do me a favor and just... not say anything? For now?" I ask. "Please."

Chin takes a deep breath. "Okay, fine. I won't... but... with this. And what happened last week. I'm worried about you, brother."

"Y'don't need to worry! No biggie just... probably got that flu bug you said. Doc suspected as much anyway." I toss the shredded paper in the bin. "Shall we?"

What I neglected to mention to Chin was that this wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last time, that I felt sick after eating. I had off and on sicknesses for a month or so, nothing more than signs of lactose intolerance or something. Gracie gave me a huge print out of foods to avoid for "guys my age", then lectured me about my cholesterol.

I just tried to eat mostly bland foods. Sort of hard to do when eating out with friends in Hawaii. Still, bigs meals or deviating from healthy eating usually sent me off the rails and into the bathroom, feeling nauseous. Though it wasn't like I couldn't keep anything down, I just didn't feel _great._

It took less than twenty four hours than for Steve to figure out something was up. Dinner at the Hilton was the start of involuntary bulimia.

At work the next morning we stand at the console table and listen as Kono brings us up to speed on another case. While we were waiting for court processing for our guy caught and arrested in the shoot out, we couldn't sit on our asses and wait to be called in for testimony. We can't ignore other crimes that need our attention.

While she talks I start feeling woozy. Legitimately woozy, and abnormally sweaty. My stomach turns over.

I mutter a brief "Excuse me" in the middle of Kono's informational download and walk out on fast forward.

Halfway down the hallway there's a bathroom, which I quickly duck into. The stall door barely has time to close behind me before I'm bent over the toilet, and everything from breakfast comes roaring back in inhuman upchucking. The toast and eggs, ugh... the orange slices... the coffee burns, acidic and toxic. I swear I am going to give up caffeine, it hurts too much on re-entry.

I feel weakened, but better, after. _Shit,_ I think. _This can't keep happening like this. I can't live like this. I can't do my JOB like this._

I swing open the stall door and Steve is leaning on the sink.

"You okay?" he asks, with an upward tilt of the chin.

"I don't know," I respond, "I don't know."

He moves aside to I can play the same old game. Wash up. Wad up the paper towels. Run the cool moisture alone the back of my neck.

"I need some time off on Wednesday," I say abruptly. "I forgot to ask earlier."

"You got it," Steve says, arms crossed over his chest.

"I'll be leaving around noon."

"Sure." He has his serious look on. I hate the serious face. It means things are serious. He had the same look when his Aunt Deb passed away. When his mom disappeared. When I was poisoned during our first year together as partners. It was only our eighteenth-nineteenth? case... "You can take off now if you're not..."

" _No,"_ I say firmly. "Just needed to get rid of whatever was setting me off. _I'm fine."_

He hasn't moved aside from the door yet. "I'm worried 'bout ya..."

"Let me stop you right there," I hold up a hand. "Just _stop,_ okay? We've got plenty going on without you getting in a twist because I've caught a bug. It's not worth it!"

"Whatever you say," Steve replies. I look at him suspiciously.

"Whatever- whatever _I_ say?" I repeat, nearly smiling. "Is this what it's like? For people who don't argue? This is-this is nice. This is what it feels like." I slap his shoulder. "Keep it up. There's hope for you yet."

Steve follows me out. "Consider the discussion tabled for another time."

"There it is," I sigh. "I knew it was too good to be true."

"You aren't off the hook that easy."

"When will a conversation with you EVER be easy?"

"Hopefully never."

"You are an exhausting man."

"I try."

"I know. No one could be this exasperating on accident."

"You sound good. You sound okay..."

"As long as I live," I nearly poke him in the arm with an accusing finger-point, "As long as I have strength in me, I will argue with you. You are too damn crazy and reckless and annoying to get away with it. Someone has to bring you back to earth once in awhile. If that ends up being my sole responsibility, I accept. _Someone_ has to."

"I'm not that reckless, I think you are prone to exaggeration," Steve replies, as we walk back into the office.

" _I'm_ prone to exaggeration?" I say, affronted.

Kona and the rest of the team notice that we're arguing, and an obvious tension from my sudden departure deflates and flees the room. No one asks where we ran off to. Everyone goes on with work, and the moment is forgotten. Except Chin-Chin has a memory like an elephant.

He looks at me with a narrow, contemplative expression. I avoid eye contact, but then I think-he's a cop. He sees RIGHT through that. So I glance over at him, and in a moment, we've communicated without meaning to. He knows exactly why I left the room, and he's considering saying something about it. And I'm looking at him like I know what he's thinking and I want him to just drop it.

So he does.

...

Funny how those little details stand out when something goes wrong.

There's a jar of cotton balls. A poster about lungs and breathing exercises that I've already memorized. A scale. There's a hole in the plastic back of the chair in the corner and there's stuffing peaking through. A scratch on the linoleum floor stands out, dark and ugly against the beige speckled squares. The doctor winds his stethoscope around his neck, and the earpieces clink against the pens in his front pocket of his white coat.

As I adjust my shirt, he's rattling off something about eating Brazil nuts and avoiding gluten, just to be on the safe side.

"Definitely want to get that mass in your abdomen checked out," he's saying. "Can you remember when you first felt it?"

"I didn't," I say with numb indifference. "I mean, I did. Whenever I leaned against a counter or a table. But I didn't think anything of it... just... a knot. Muscle, I hoped."

"Yeah, well, definitely not muscle," says the doctor briskly. "I'm going to call my guy up at the hospital and get you in for an ultrasound. It's probably just a cyst. These things happen to adults when you get to be this age. Just due to where it's at, I can make an educated guess and say it's on your stomach-but again-that's what the ultrasound is for. I'm going to have my receptionist call your insurance."

"Yeah, okay," I reply.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"I have to pick up my daughter tomorrow from school. I have her for Thursday, Friday, and the weekend this time..." rattling off unnecessary details for no apparent reason. "Wouldn't next week be better?"

"I'll make the appointment for the late morning tomorrow and give you a little time. You'll be back for picking up your daughter from school. But this shouldn't wait. Better safe then sorry."

 _This shouldn't wait. Don't wait on this one. Probably just a cyst..._

I hadn't told Steve why I needed some time off. Not sure I needed to. He calls me before I've even finished driving home from the doctor's office, cheerful and painfully casual.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

"You're fishing," I respond.

"Yeah. Okay. I'm an islander. We do that."

"Fine," I say shortly.

"Okay," he replies. "So how fine is fine?"

"It was just a follow up appointment," I say half-heartedly. "Typical stuff. I need to go."

"All right. See you tomorrow morning."

"Shit," I mutter. "Tomorrow... uh... I'll be late coming in."

A beat. "Mind if I ask why?"

 _Yes, I mind, I mind very very much..._ "Calling in sick?"

"What's going on, Danny?"

"I just had something unexpected come up and it's tomorrow morning and no way to get around it," I rattle off quickly. "Can I just say I am calling in sick? I mean, what's the big deal? Do I need to go the human resources department and fill out some paperwork?"

"No. Technically I'm the commander of Five O, so, you let me know, and we're good."

"Yeah, okay then, we're good. I'm sick tomorrow. I'll be seeing you later then."

"Danny..."

I hang up, pull in my driveway, and put the car into park. I bury my face in my hands for a moment and then smooth back my hair. A typical gesture. Things go wrong... fix the hair. Keep it longish, keep it nice and combed back. Things suck... fix the hair. Think too hard... fix the hair. A nervous gesture? I don't know. I don't over analyze myself, just other people.

...

"So what is it, doc?" I ask jokingly. "Boy or a girl?"

He hands me a washcloth to clean the gel spread all over my midsection. "You're going to need a better test than this. I can tell you the same thing your doctor told you; it's a mass."

"Yeah, okay, wait a sec," I say, temper flaring. "My doctor says the same thing and all he can do it kneed my stomach a little, he didn't need to see the inside. So with all this _tech_ that you have, there has to be something new you can tell me that he can't. Am I right?"

"I can tell you that it's about the size of a grapefruit and it's next to your stomach," He says with a shrug. "That's about it."

"A grapefruit," I repeat robotically. "You mean like an actual grapefruit? The orange thing that my ex-wife sprinkles some sugar on and eats for breakfast?"

"Yeah," he held up a thick, dark fist. "About yay big."

"Shit," I whisper. " _Shit-_ okay-so-this test. You said you needed something better to tell me any more than that. What's better?"

"A CT scan would be good, I don't really know why they decided you needed an ultrasound first... We'll schedule that with reception."

"Literally the exact same process I just went through, _"_ I say with some irritation. "Look, I get you're just doing your job, and I'm not upset with you, but I'm getting the feeling like I'm a dog in a circus jumping through the hoops. All for the sake of another _test,_ for this _mass."_

"I hesitate to use the word _tumor_ due to the connotation," he says, "I mean, we don't know whether it's malignant or benign mass, so it's better safe than sorry..."

"Malignant," I repeat with a half-laugh. "What? You mean like cancer?"

"Could be," he shrugs. "That's what the cat scan is for."

"Oh, okay," I reply easily, as if I hear this sort of thing every day.

He says a few more things, probably important things that I should pay attention to, but I don't. My attention wavers, a name coming in and out with each heartbeat. _Grace, Grace, Grace. And Charlie, too, but...oh god, my Gracie. I can't have cancer._

We schedule a CT scan with the receptionist for next week. Same time. Same hospital. Same f*cking department. I might as well be on a first name basis with people.

"See you next week then, Melia," I say to the receptionist. She smiles kindly and wishes me luck, but the smile does not reach her eyes. Maybe she has seen too many people come in these doors with a question and go back out with the answer that they never wanted to hear.

...

It's a paperwork and catch-up-on-emails sort of day.

I go into the office, late just like I promised. I grasp the handle and open the glass door to Steve's office, where he is concentrating on his laptop with knotted brows and a cranky expression.

"Look at this," he turns his screen around and points angrily to an email. " _Look_ at this."

"What am I lookin' at here?"

"An email from the DA. They aren't calling us as witnesses."

"You're f... joking. What?"

"They _know_ how long we've been working this case! And they decided that calling on the arresting officers would swing the jury one way and they aren't willing to risk it. SO they'll call on the professional psychologist from the university to analyze his behavior and tell people how nice he is to women and how broken up he is over his brother's death, but they won't call on actual police officers. Bullshit."

I hold out my hands and then slap them down on the desk top. "Then our hands are tied."

"Over my dead body," Steve growls.

I feel my eyebrows creep up in a pained expression. "Don't say things like that."

Steve glances over the top of his laptop. "How was _your_ morning?"

 _Cancerous._

"Fine," I make a brushing motion with my hand, indicating _next subject, please._

"Get everything taken care of that you needed to take care of?"

"Ah, well, no," I say slowly. "About that..."

His eyebrows go way, way up. For a moment the poor bastard actually thinks I am about to tell him what's going on. _I_ don't even know what's going on, so it's not going to happen. Yet.

"I have to take some time off, again," I say cryptically. "Things were not resolved today, and..." I pause, hesitating, while Steve abruptly stands up and starts packing his laptop. "I, uh," I try to continue, distracted by his sudden movements. "I need the same time next week. Thursday morning. That okay?"

"I don't like this," Steve comes around the edge of his desk and sits on the edge. "It's not like you to not be forthcoming with me..."

"It's not like I'm lying to you, I just need to omit details for the time being, all right?"

"What I don't understand is _why."_

"Did you ever stop and think that _maybe_ I don't know why?" I ask. "Hmm? that maybe things aren't so simple in real life and sometimes you just don't talk about things? But no, unlike you, wearing your heart on your sleeve all the time, I'm sure that must be difficult to understand..."

"You are literally describing yourself. You know I'm the one usually cool as a cucumber. You're the one monologuing about how much you disagree with something as loudly as possible."

"Yeah, well, then here's another one for you, I disagree with you butting into my personal life right now, that's it! That's all!"

"I'm butting in? Really!"

"Yes, I can't have a single private moment to call my own."

"Well, you know, guys like you get private time and then have seizures in their car," Steve suddenly took our mock fight, our right and privilege as partners, and turned it serious and absolutely unfunny. "So maybe you can understand where I'm coming from just a little bit."

"I think you just broke the big unspoken rule that we're never going to discuss that night ever again."

"Except that I think here might be an issue and I'd like to discuss it."

"You _think_ there might be an issue until you run it to the ground and create an actual issue. Let this one go, Steve, it's not worth it."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

The door opens, and Kono peeks her head in. Saved by the belle.

" _Hey Boss, we got a body."_

We've come to rely on Kong's six mostly commonly uttered words to jumpstart some sort of adventure across the island of Oahu. Without even thinking about it anymore, I'm handing Steve my car keys, and our sirens are screaming with metallic harmonies out of the city of Honolulu and through the mountain tunnels towards North Shore. Steve honks the horn once while passing through the dark interior barely lit with hazardous yellow lights.

"Why, why, why do you always do that?" I ask with a snort of irritation.

He shrugs with disbelief at my lack of cultural appreciation. "If you don't honk, you might hit a _Menehune_."

"Leprechaun."

"Absolutely not," Steve exclaims. "It's completely different. Little people, in the forests of the island..."

"Gold at the end of the rainbow..."

"...The stories vary," he goes on as if he didn't hear. "Honk the horn, save the Menehune. Honk the horn or it _offends_ the Menehune. Sometimes the Menehune will be seen in the woods..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it. Little people in the woods. The only little people I care about are Grace and Charlie."

"You've been here for, what, almost eight years now? And you're still so out of touch with our culture here. Listen up. You might learn somethin'."

"I got plenty to think about without trying to retain leprechaun trivia." I scroll through a text message from Duke. He's on the crime scene already. "A couple on vacation with gunshot wounds. No gun found... killer is keeping it on him instead of disposing it, maybe?"

"Could be... it's risky to keep it on your person."

"Just as risky of throwing it away if it has your fingerprints on it."

"Who is going to target a white, middle-aged couple on a private beach enjoying the spoils of retirement and bad tanning oil?"

"I'm going to hesitate on speculation for this one."

"Oh, no please, by all means," I open and close my hands like a book of his golden thoughts. "Speculate away."

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, taking an extra second to check the side mirrors. "For awhile, particularly in the sixties, the northern natives would threaten anyone crossing into their territory," Steve says carefully. "Tourists are an interesting target because they carry a lot of valuables, but it also draws a lot of media attention, sometimes brings in family from the mainland... there could be a number of motives."

"Cash grab?"

"Maybe." Steve tightens his hand on the steering wheel. "But if we've run into a case of a native Hawaiian, possibly gang related, shooting a _haole_ tourist... that's huge. It would bring even more tension into an already tense situation. It feels wrong to even assume that could be a possibility, but..."

"You still feel bad for considering it first," I finish.

"Right. Like for you, back in Jersey, something goes wrong at the airport and everyone points to the nearest man in a turban. Something bad happens in California and everyone looks at the nearest Hispanic landscaper. We absolutely cannot deny that these preprogrammed aggressions are within us as humans to blame the minority. But we'd love to pretend we're better than that."

I muse out loud, " _Haoles_ are the minority in this neighborhood."

"You are correct there, my friend."

...

The scene is alive with the sound of murder.

Duke is conducting his team for evidence searches and recovery, Eric is taking photographs of the scene, Chin and Kono are standing on the beach looking down at our victims with arms crossed over their chests and respectfully worried expressions.

Steve lifts a hand in greeting. Our shoes slip and crunch over fallen palm branches, the path uncleared and unmanaged from the back of the vacation home to the private beach. The couple lay on the sand, still perfectly arranged on their towels as if happily sunning. For a moment, an umbrella shields my view.

I walk around the edge of one of the towels and look down at our victims. A middle aged couple, dead as doornails, each with a bullet hole in their chests.

"Tony and Miranda Peters," Kono informs us, handing Steve her iPad. He scrolls through the pictures she retrieved from their social media sites. "The IDs in their bags match the social networking accounts. They're here celebrating their retirement. Posts indicate that they were expected home in two days, so it gives us enough time to track down family and alert them."

"Anything missing, as far as you can tell?"

"No credit or debit cards taken, but no cash in the wallets, either."

"So someone might have taken cash?"

"Maybe," Kono replies. "We need to get their poolside bags into evidence for closer examination. Any DNA that could have been left behind. Last person that saw them alive was their Uber driver, bringing them back last night from dinner at Hard Rock."

"The driver checks out for approximate time of death?"

"The driver was on another call, transporting some college girls to the airport when it happened," Chin fills in. "He was called in and said he'd be willing to help in any way he can. He's fully cooperating and giving us a detailed itinerary of when they used Uber services in the last few days."

"Okay, good. That's helpful. So Max," Steve kneels down beside Max. "Can you walk us through what happened?"

"Someone had approached from the oceanside," Max explains with clinical professionalism. "He or she walked along the wet sand, assuring the tracks would be swept out with the tide, hanging a right hand turn until they had come to the foot of the beach towels, approximately where Detective Williams stands now. The person would have pulled the gun and shot both of them-the woman first, the man second. Presumably after chatting with them for a short time, one would need to if they were going to stand so close." Max gently presses at the bullet wound with blue gloved hands. A slow globule of bright red blood dribbles out. "I'll need them back at the lab quickly so that I can extract this bullet and determine the type of gun used. But based on the size of the wound, I would make the educated guess it was a small revolver."

"Almost done with these epic glamour shots," Eric chimes in. "Then we can move the bodies."

Max pokes at the bullet hole again. "Curious," he says. "If I could make any further guesses without the benefit of microscopic technology at hand, I would say the weapon used was a Colt Mustang. The absolute preference for small conceal carry... under one pound. Even a person in swimming trunks could keep the weapon concealed until they were absolutely close enough to ensure success at murder."

Steve already plans following up on a lead. Why would people this wealthy not have someone regularly clearing the paths and keeping up on the landscaping? Did they _have_ a landscaper employed that, maybe, didn't show up for work today because he was the killer?

We're walking back to the car. Fortunately we parked alongside a tree lined driveway, so when my stomach suddenly leaps into my throat, I don't have the entire HPD watching with surprised expressions.

I put a hand on the hood of my car and bend over, not even given enough time to step out of the driveway and into the trees. I'm vomiting breakfast, and the coffee that I had vowed I'd give up. There's some of last night, too. Dinner of beef soup, yet another acidic burn.

I cough several times, trying to rid my throat of the last clinging nausea.

Steve walks around me and opens my car door. "Come on," he says lightly. "Sit down before you fall down."

I gag a few more times for good measure.

"It's okay, buddy," I hear Steve say, in a sort of brotherly tone.

I emerge out of the singular mindset of a person being sick. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Come on." He gestures to the car. "Sit."

I walk around and sit sideways in my seat, facing the trees lining the road instead. Steve goes to the driver's side, reaches into the back seat, and pulls out a water bottle. Once he's sitting behind the wheel, he taps my shoulder with the bottle until I accept it.

"Please tell me your time off for next Thursday is for a doctor's appointment," he says quietly.

"Yes, it is," I say, taking a swig of water.

"Good. Good. Then they can figure out how to help you," Steven hesitates before patting my back slightly. "You ready to check out this landscaper? He lives a few miles away."

I pull my legs into the car and face the dash. "I guess so." I reach over and shut the door. Steve starts the engine, and opens his mouth.

"Don't ask me if I am okay," I say quickly. "I do not think I am ready to have an answer for you yet."

 _..._

* * *

 _Please read and review. Thank you, lovely readers!_

 _..._

* * *

 _Two stories from Hawaii, like I promised..._

 _A sort of scary thing happened on my last night of vacation - my backpack was stolen, (which had my cameras, my wallet, and my nausea/anti-anxiety cancer meds in it) and so was my friend's bag. When I told hotel security I had medications in it, I was really appreciative that they decided to call HPD..._

 _Let's just say when I fantasized about my own Hawaii Five-O moments, this was the exact opposite of what I imagined! My bag (and my friend's bag) were turned into a lost and found (by the drunk idiots that took them in the first place)._

 _It was so relieving to know that my ID was still there (I had a flight to catch the next morning!) and they didn't take any of my meds. When I realized my bag was missing (taken from a lounge chair beside the super pool while I was in the water) I nearly had a panic attack. I haven't been so shaken since... well, since the scenario that inspired the whole first chapter! Effing vasovagal... still. I am mentally and physically in a better place now, so it didn't have the same results. This would be a whole other story otherwise. But still, the feeling of being robbed... especially when medications are gone, and cameras and a journal containing all the memories... that was so frightening, I couldn't stop crying. I should probably mention that chemotherapy f*cked my brain up, so I have something like a short term memory issue... it sort of feels like Alzheimers? I can't remember a lot of things that I wish to remember, so retaining the memories of Hawaii through cameras and my journal are absolutely imperative. Thank god for Hilton Hawaii Village security and their vigilance, and double-checking that call about two bags being turned in at a DIFFERENT hotel tower than the one we were staying in..._

 _What an adventure! That's story number one, the scary one!_

 _Now for story number 2, the funny one._

 _We went on an epic walk in downtown Honolulu and walked the Waikiki beach back to the hotel. There's a wall on the back of a hotel that ordinarily has a little beach in front of it that you can walk on, but the tide had rolled in so there was a big ass wall blocking our way back, unless we wanted to backtrack half a mile, or go down a creepy alleyway in the dark. No way. My walking companions... Let's call them Makai and Steve (for reasons that will become obvious)... had the timing down to an art form. The waves rolled out, they ran down the sand, and jumped up the stairs that cut into the wall and made it high enough before the waves come crashing back against the cement._

 _Um, HELLO? I'm still waiting back on the other side, standing awkwardly._

 _Me: HEY! UH... SO... I'M NOT GOING THAT WAY. (turns and sees the alleyway) Uh... not that way either... (looks back down the beach) Oh shoot. This is gonna be a long walk..._

 _Makai: Will you go help her, please?_

 _Steve: SURE! (waits for tide to roll out, runs down the stairs, appears around the corner of the wall) Come on!_

 _Me: Naw. No way._

 _Steve: It's not that far, you can just -_

 _Me: I can't make that._

 _Steve: It's easy! You just gotta run -_

 _Me: I'm not THAT fast -_

 _Steve: It's all about the timing -_

 _Me: I DON'T DO 'TIMING'_

 _Steve: No, you can make it, just run behind me -_

 _Me: No, this is STUPID. This is a bad idea!_

 _Steve: On three, we'll run..._

 _Me: I will GET WET_

 _Steve: I will not let you get wet! Ready? One -_

 _Me: THIS IS SO STUPID THIS IS THE WORST_

 _Steve: TWO... GO GO GO!_

 _(we take off running. Steve makes it around the corner of the wall, the water recedes, he runs up the stairs - I'm right on his tail - the end is in sight - the tide decides to come back in eight seconds sooner than all previous motions - ROARS TOWARDS ME - CRASH!_

 _I'm on the bottom stair when the tides comes back in, a 4 and a half foot wave crashes against me, soaking me from the chest down)_

 _(I emerge up the stairs, dripping, soaking, and glaring daggers)_

 _Steve: (giggles) Oops?_

 _Me: YOU BETTER SLEEP WITH BOTH EYES OPEN CUZ I'M GOING TO KILL YOU_

 _(next evening; after the traditional Friday night fireworks on the lagoon, we're watching the Hawaii 5-0 2 hour season finale in our hotel room, eating a pineapple)_

 _ **(Hawaii 5-0 Scene)**_

 _ **Steve: Yep, that's all he said...**_

 _ **Danny: So you went all the way to Morocco for a fortune cookie?**_

 _Holly (bff): OH MY GOSH, THIS IS YOU._

 _Me: Oh god._

 _Makai (another bff): It's totally you._

 _Me: Is this a good thing? Or a bad thing?_

 _Girls: Ummmm_

 _ **(watching another scene where Steve is trying to convince Danny to jump from one building's roof to another building's roof)**_

 _ **Steve: Just jump, Danny!**_

 _ **Danny: I don't want to jump, I want to LIVE!**_

 _ **Steve: You can make it!**_

 _ **Danny: I hate you SO much!**_

 _ **Steve: I love you, man!**_

 _Makai: This is like what happened yesterday._

 _(everyone starts laughing)_

 _Daddy K: (yells from the other room) I think we got a new nickname for you..._

 _Me: Um... what is it?_

 _Dad: Danno._

 _(everyone starts laughing again)_

 _Me: Ahhh... hm... okay. I accept._

 _And there's the stories._

 _Now when I write this fic, I feel that there is an added depth of understanding that I did not possess before. Seeing HPD in person, being on the island IN Honolulu, seeing tons of places where the cast and crew have walked... one of the best experiences of my life. Thanks for joining me again._


	5. Maka'u

_Thanks for the wonderful reviews for the last chapter, everyone. I know this is not an easy story to read... and it's certainly not an easy one to write, either. I'm channeling my angst, purging my nightmares and surreal true experiences into a fictional character living in paradise. I'm sure someone would probably say this isn't healthy but... it gives my brain a break from holding onto those memories, you know?_

 _Thanks for joining me again._

* * *

...

 _Maka'u_

 _Fear_

...

True to Steve's generalization, we looked sideways at the nearest landscaper. Turns out the kid, Brandon, only fifteen, had checked himself into the hospital for an allergic reaction to peanut butter two days prior. A text on the phones of the deceased indicated that they knew he was going to be absent for a few days, and wished him well.

 _Take care of yourself,_ said a text from Tony Peters, the last text message he ever sent. _Nothing's more important than your health. Who cares if our sidewalk gets a little overgrown? We leave in a few days anyway. We'll leave the check with your mom and we're covering the days you're missing. No arguments! See you next summer!_

Nothing's more important than your health...

The last text from Miranda.

 _Send us your room number, kiddo, I'm sending flowers. So sorry you have a PB allergy! That sux! See you next summer sweetie._

It took only one conversation with his mother, a look at the phones, and a call to the hospital, and the landscaper was safe from suspicion.

Back to square one.

I'm surprised when Steve drops me off at my house. Its barely 3 PM.

"We have some time to stop by headquarters, you know," I say confusedly.

"When's Gracie out?"

"Three thirty."

"I'll pick her up, and you can rest..."

"No, no, no," I turn sideways in my seat and glare at him. "Gracie freaks out when someone other than me picks her up at school. Y'know what she told me? She said every time a uniform shows up at her school, her heart just drops inside," I pound on my chest for emphasis, "Because she thinks I'm _dead._ Or back in prison. _Something."_

"Okay, fine," Steve replies, putting the car in park. "You going to tell me what's going on?"

"I don't KNOW what's going on, Steven! I DON'T _KNOW._ If I knew, I would tell you. If I knew, I'd give you the good news so you can get off my ass. But I don't know. I've got nothing. Okay? Okay!"

"You're an angry little man," Steve gives me a sideways grin.

A laugh slips its way out. "And you're a pain."

"You call me if you need anything," Steve gets out of the car, and I walk around the end to reclaim the driver's seat. " _Anything."_

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you'll bust through the wall like the Kool Aid guy and save the day."

"You know me!"

"That's what worries me!"

"Always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Not always."

"Love you."

"Get off my lawn."

...

"So, what've we got on Tony and Miranda Peters?" Steve stretches his arms across the console table and rubs at his temples. Apparently he's not sleeping well, either. It's been a few days of sleepless nights on my end, too. My headspace is somewhere between Grace trying to buffer a youtube video and waiting for my mom to say what's really on her mind when she calls at twelve a.m. _just to see how her boy is doing._

"Well, both are active in community services and charities," Kono flips through documents on the iPad and sighs. "It's hard to find anything not to like. While in town for vacations... not just celebrating retirement, but on a yearly summer trip, they participate in community services and charity events even when they're staying only a week or so. They both donate regularly to Red Cross, Medical Teams International, and Convoy of Hope."

"Were they active in anything on this trip?"

"Yeah... gift baskets for the radiology department at the hospital."

I shift uncomfortably. I saw the baskets clustered by the door when I was there for my appointment. A sign said _please take one, God bless you._

I didn't take one. I thought I would leave 'em for someone who were truly in need of encouragement. Although the more I think about it, the more I think I am one of those people.

Steve's cell rings. "McGarret," he answers. "Yeah. Okay. See you in a minute." He hangs up and looks at us, his face a little bewildered. "We have another body."

...

"Matthew Hashimoto," Kono introduces us to the dead body, a Japanese man of approximately fifty-five. "Psychologist and counselor. He has his own practice, mostly sees adult patients."

The man is slumped over his car seat, halfway getting into his car and shot in the back. One leg drifts crookedly out onto the pavement. He's in a nice business suit.

"Do we have security cameras in this parking garage?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, they're pulling the footage now," Chin replies. "What I can't wrap my head around is why, to my limited expertise in forensics, does it look like he was shot with the same gun that took out Tony and Miranda Peters?"

"You think it might be the same shooter?" I ask.

"We need to get Max in here to find out," Steve replies.

"He just called me," Chin says, "He's finishing up the autopsy for the Peters. He extracted a bullet for a Colt Mustang XSP."

"That's one tiny firearm," I comment.

"Under one pound," Chin adds. He points a gloved hand towards the actively bleeding bullet wound in the man's back. "Look at the minimal damage and size."

"Can Max get here?"

"Already on his way."

"Guys," Kono looks up from her iPad with a surprised expression. "HPD just said that all the footage is useless." She points to one of the supporting cement pillars. "That thing blocks the view of this parking spot alone. And," she pointed to the elevator. "That entrance. So our shooter could have entered, shot, and exited within seconds and not a single camera would have seen a thing."

"Where does that elevator go?" Steve points.

"Ground level... lobby for Dr. Hashimoto's office."

"It could be one of his coworkers or patients. Someone familiar with this parking garage."

"A patient who told him too much, perhaps?"

"Could be," Steve says. He waves an officer over. "Make sure Max has what he needs when he gets here. We're heading down the elevator. Have him text me with approximate TOD."

Initial interviews with staff reveal nothing. Dr. Hashimoto counseled adult patients suffering from terminal illnesses, affairs, midlife crises, alcoholism, divorces, and the likely guilt of bad investments and gambling. He has a photograph of his two children on his desk.

HPD had already sent someone to his house to speak with his wife. Dr. Hashimoto was supposed to be in at 8 AM, so even without Max's official time of death, based on when Mrs. Hashimoto last saw him over morning coffee, he had been killed when he arrived in the parking lot around 7:45 AM.

We spend the rest of the morning chasing down leads. The receptionist had a recent disagreement with him about her wages. Hashimoto's oldest son owed him some money for helping him out with a rent payment. His maid, Rita, stole eight dollars from his wallet back in 2003 and was fired. Each one weaker than the last, but they all have one thing in common - money. There has to be something there.

We're at _Community Paz,_ an assisted living home that smells like formaldehyde and clam chowder, speaking with staff and preparing to follow up with the maid. Leaning on the front counter to check in...

There's a sharp pain in my stomach. Not unlike the feeling of being stabbed with a knife in a hyper-realistic hallucination... like what I hoped was a hallucination when I got back from the ER that night.

I keep it together as long as we're still talking to the staff, and gently speak to Rita. Her alibi is so rock solid its almost embarrassing... Rita was confined to a wheelchair in 2010 and practically hasn't left her room since.

It's only Wednesday. Tomorrow is the appointment.

I pause outside the door of the care home and lean with one hand against a pillar. Part of me looks ahead at the well-manicured grounds of banana trees and curved sidewalks dispersed between the groves, thinking if I can just walk into those trees, I could lie down and hide until the pain passes and my team won't know where I've gone.

It's thoughts like that that make me wonder if I am truly derailing.

"We have to start thinking bigger," Steve says as he exits the home. "Max is getting Doc Hashimoto in for the autopsy now. We'll get the..." he pauses and notices my flushed expression and one hand leaning for support. "What's wrong?" he asks quickly.

"Nothing," I say, out of breath.

"That's not nothing," Steve comes around the pillar so that he's facing me. "Talk to me."

"I-I-don't know what," I stuttered. I am a grown man and I am nearly weeping with a tummy ache. "I've just got some stomach pains, is all. No... no big deal..."

"Stomach pains," Steve repeats. "Danny, you look like you're about to cave in on yourself. What can I do?"

"Let's just go to the car, please, can we do that?" I ask, sort of sarcastically.

"Yeah, of course," Steve tries to take my arm but I pull it away.

"I am perfectly capable of walking myself to my car, thank you." I walk disjointedly into the parking lot. The lights flicker and the car unlocks, and I let myself into the passenger seat without any argument. I let out an involuntary groan and nearly curl up in the seat.

Steve opens the driver's door but doesn't get in. "Tell me what to do, man. I can call for an ambulance. We'll get you back to the ER... force them to take a closer look at the tests..."

"Just take me home."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I have an appointment tomorrow an-" I abruptly stop short because of the stabbing knife feeling thrusting its way through my abdomen. I'm glad I have my back to him, facing the passenger window... if he saw the look of fear and surprise on my face, no amount of argument would keep him from personally seeing me into the ER for another sleepless night of pointlessness.

I let out a surprised grunt, a shuddered exhale of pain that is almost like a growl. "tomorrow," I try to recover, "So... there isn't really anything anyone can do for me... right..." I pause as another wave of knife-blade sensations stab in and out of my stomach. "...now... _jesus christ,"_ I'm not even sure what I was talking to Steve about anymore. I've completely lost track.

Steve is jumping into the car and turning it on. "Buckle up," he says firmly.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," I buckle the seatbelt, and recline the seat back a few inches. Just enough to feel... well, not better. But at least I don't have to sit up and pretend to be fine when I don't... or least I'm starting to think... I'm not. _I might not actually be okay. That scares the hell out of me._ My breath hitches with another twist of my stomach, and my hand finds the pocket in the door, which I squeeze mercilessly, my knuckles turning white.

"What can I do?"

"I don't know..."

"I don't like this... I should take you to the ER right now."

"They'll probably just tell me it's gas or something."

He tries not to chuckle. "Does it feel like that's what it is?"

"No, but there's nothing they can't tell me that I can hear from someone else tomorrow."

"But in the meantime!"

"I'll just wait..." I suck in a breath. Stab and twist. Stab and twist. "Wait it out."

"If it doesn't go away.. if you feel like this for a long time... I don't care what you think they can just tell you tomorrow. Call me. I'll take you back to the ER."

Another wave, then it passes. Then another. Stab and twist. I let out a low growl through clenched teeth instead.

"Danny!"

"Yeah- yeah! I got it! I promise! Can you let me be miserable now? This isn't sixty minutes!" My body involuntarily convulses with a spasm of pain plunging a white-hot iron hand through my stomach and into my spine. I surprise myself by vocalizing it. "Ow..."

That's all I can manage. _Jesus Henry Christ, what the f*ck is wrong with me?_

Continuing to drive with one hand, Steve reaches over and pats my shoulder. "Hang tight, buddy," he says quietly. When another spasm rips through me, he stops patting my shoulder. He felt all my muscles contract. Unsure, he pulls his hand back. Maybe I don't quite feel like getting petted like a puppy right now.

It feels like the longest drive of my life. But for once, not from a cargument.

It takes about forty minutes to get into my neighborhood. When we pull up to the curb, I hesitate before getting out, and instead hold my hands out questionably. "What about the case?"

Steve shrugs. "Health is the most important thing."

He quotes the text message on purpose, I'm sure of it. He slaps my keys into my hand and waits for me to get out of the car. The pains have sort of subsided into a dull, residual ache. I feel as if I've been put on a medieval rack.

"What are you telling Gracie?" he asks as I lock the car. He pauses by his truck, arms folded over his chest in a pre-defensive mode. My mouth opens as I'm about to bark and bite, but he cuts me off. "What I _mean, is,_ not what are you telling her as a father... but are you preparing her for... anything? If she needs to call 911? Does she know how to try and lower a person to the ground when they're about to pass out instead of catching them?"

"You don't think I've taught my daughter all that?" I scoff.

"Is she prepared to do those sorts of things for _you,_ though?" Steve asks pointedly. "I'm worried that I get in this truck, and drive way, and tomorrow we find you on the floor in your kitchen in a pile of your own... drool."

"Thanks for saying drool."

"Well, I could say _shit,_ but we agreed never to speak about it, so..." there's a mischievous glint in Steve's eyes. I could literally kick his ass right now if I wasn't about to fall apart myself.

"Get out of here," I point. "You're worse than my mother."

"Have you called your mother...?"

"GET OUT!" I find myself nearly laughing. "Thank you for letting me off the hook early. I am going to go in this house right now and sleep it off . If you don't stop worrying I will personally kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try!" He laughs, and then grows serious again. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Damnit, Steve..."

"I mean it! I will."

...

The next morning I wake up from a text message from Steve.

(bleep)!

(1/2) _Not long after I dropped you off - got another call - 3rd body. Classifying as serial killer until we know more, possibly serial for monetary gain? Serial robber afraid of witnesses? Guns/wounds match. Colt Mustang XSP, same w/ mr Hashimoto... vic, woman - 23 yrs old. Tanya Healoka. Intern at_

 _(2/2) hospital, from wealthy family. Third year medical school undergraduate - obvious signs of robbery this time. Purse emptied of 300$ that Mr Healoka said he gave to her in A.M. for a birthday spending spree she planned for after her shift_

I sigh and text him back.

 _Meet up with you guys after appt._

(bleep...)

 _No. Stay home and rest_

Me: _Or how about I meet up with you and help out_

(bleep)

 _Give it one more day Danno_

Me: _Or screw that?_

He doesn't answer.

"Fine then," I mutter to myself. "Maybe I'll just stay home then."

 _..._

The process of getting a cat scan is nothing new to me. I've had a variety of work related injuries and issues that required getting that extra check. I pay my dues; sit in the lobby for forty minutes, get invited back to a secondary lobby for another forty minutes, get on the hospital gown, and waddle into the bed that sits under a sort of metal and plastic arch. I don't even wince when they give me the IV. When the IV fluids rush through my body and it feels like I am peeing myself, I don't bother to ask if I am. I know how it works.

"Yeah, so, all I can tell you," they say after I've changed, "The mass is about the size of a... softball."

"Bigger than... a grapefruit?" I specify.

"Oh, yeah, definitely bigger than that."

So it's getting bigger in a short amount of time. It's surprising to me that it's not visible from the outside... I mean, maybe it is. But it just looks like I'm slouching a little, right...? Is my body really so adaptable to foreign enemies that all my organs just move around and make room for the bastard?

I fold my hands together patiently. "Listen, that can't be all you can tell me. They sent me in here to determine if its cancerous or not. So. The last few guys told me how big it was, too. That can't- can't- be it."

He stares at me over his monitor. "Tests are inconclusive. If they wanted to determine whether or not it was cancerous they should of scheduled you for an MRI."

I start to slam my hand down on the counter, but rethink it, and make a fist instead, tapping it against my forehead as if trying to remember something important. "So you're telling me the last few tests I've had were absolutely pointless?"

"Kind of...?" the man says. He's young. Fresh out of medical school. Maybe twenty-five at the oldest. "Listen, I'll do everything I can. I'll call your doctor and raise a little hell. Get you into an MRI soon. It's not something we want to wait around for."

"I have not been waiting!" I erupt. "Everyone keeps saying to quit waiting but I am doing the exact opposite of waiting! You've got to give me more than that."

He shrugs.

"Nothing?" I ask. "NOTHING?" I repeat louder. "The man says nothing," I narrate to the fourth wall. "Okay. Well. You can thank my doctor for being an absolute waste of my time."

I would have slammed the door behind me, but it's a hospital door. It swings back in slow motion, patiently and automatically until it clicks shut.

I'm trembling with rage. I stomp out to my car and pace back and forth. What the hell am I supposed to do? Patiently wait to die?

I open the car and get inside, and wait quietly. All anger comes to a breaking point; a climax, a violent change from stagnant and pressure to the explosion. I bang my fist against the steering wheel multiple times, punching as hard as I can, cursing loudly until I hit the horn, startling someone across the parking lot. _Bam, bam, bam,_ until two knuckles are bleeding and my throat is sore from screaming. I can't even tell if I am weeping at this point. I'm sweaty anyway.

Then I stretch my aching fingers. Smooth back my hair. Turn the car on and reverse.

Monotony is my only answer to questions unasked.

...

 _A few days later_

"These victims are all connected somehow," Steve is looking at their faces again at the screen. "The connections seem almost... too obvious. Healthcare. A hospital intern, a mental health doctor, and a nice church-couple on vacation that made some donations... But it's a broad scope. What sort of person would cross all three of their paths?"

"Is that a rhetorical question, or are we raising our hands?" I ask, partially raising my hand.

Steve catches the snark. "Oh, please, be my guest. Answer away."

"Oh, that doesn't mean I have an answer," I say with a grumble. "Just asking."

Steve is almost too hot and bothered by this case to find my usual quips as funny as they usually are. In fact, I don't even know why I keep it up. It's exhausting.

"I'm calling it for today," Steve shuts his laptop. "We have no new leads. HPD is combing through personal effects, interviewing family members, writing reports... Duke will let us know when they have something. We need to finish up our end of the job... follow up with Max, confer with forensics and clean up..."

"I'm well aware," I say, lacing my fingers together. "When's the last time you slept?"

"When's the last time YOU slept?"

"Don't turn this around on me, I asked first."

"I slept last night! What about you?"

I shrug. "Not much. A little."

"When's your next appointment?"

"Like YOU need to know!"

"Maybe I do! I'm the boss."

I count off three days on my fingers. "Friday."

"Okay," Steven nods thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to his computer screen.

"Would you be available... around... ten?" I ask, before my mind can even compute what I am suggesting. Sometimes my mouth blurts things out that I really had no intention of blurting.

Steve looks up again. "You serious?"

"Not entirely... I mean..."

"Sounds like you're asking me to go with you to your appointment."

"Wherever would you get that idea?"

"Well, it's too late, whatever you meant. I'm going. That's final."

"I take it back. You'll only blow up the hospital or something."

"Hospital?" Steven repeats. "I thought we were going to a doctor's appointment."

"That's where the appointment is."

"So... what... your doctor gave up his private practice?"

"No, I'm not seeing my regular doctor. I've been, uh... referred."

"You mean like, to a specialist," Steven clarifies.

"Sure. I guess. Whatever."

Steve sits up further in his chair, and firmly shuts his laptop. "What exactly are they following up at this appointment then?" he asks. "I thought you and your doctor were getting together and discussing stress and nutrition or something."

I forgot about how much I've kept him in the dark so far.

"I'm getting an MRI," I reply like it's no big deal. Steve blinks.

"What for?" he asks, in a composed, creepy-calm voice.

"I don't really know," I lie. "I'm trying not to entertain too much guesswork. It's just a test."

Steve stands up and moves to the edge of his desk, not quite sitting on it, but leaning enough to give him a slouch and help him look eye-level. "Then why do you want me to come?"

"Okay, well, if you're going to make it big deal..."

"I am NOT making it a big deal!"

"You are, you ARE, and I'm sorry I asked..."

"Don't be SORRY, I am hoping for the first time in weeks you'll open your tight fists and just give me something, ANYTHING, to work with here. I am running on fumes when it comes to your emotional sensitivity."

"My emotional sensitivity, the man says," I grumble. "That's nice, that's very nice..."

"MRI's are the tests that go into the tube structure?" Steve continues. "The really tight, loud ones. Is that it?"

"Ding ding ding, he wins a prize," I say sarcastically.

"Best friend of the year, right?" Steve asks. "Because I'm driving. If you get all wacky inside the MRI machine..."

"It's not being wacky, it's called claustrophobia..."

"Right. If you get all," he makes a funny motion with his hands aligned beside his eyes like horse blinders, "Claustrophobic in there, I'll be close by. And I can make sure you don't have to drive home alone if..." he stops.

"If I get dizzy?"

"I was going to say if it's bad news."

"It's not bad news, okay?" I argue. "This is why I don't tell my mother things."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"I'm trying to make a point, here, that you're worse than my mother."

"Your mother is a charming and lovely woman."

"I'mma just stop you right there. And don't point at yourself like you're not sure if I'm talking to you - we're in an empty office, that don't work here."

...

Steve and I have been waiting in the lobby for thirty minutes already. I'm sipping the contrast dye in a dripping white concoction that tastes like soy milk, blueberries, and sawdust. There's a bad soap opera playing on a tv in the corner, and Steve is mesmerized.

Bored by drinking, I set the dye down to take a break. Before I can say anything, Steve grabs the cup, takes a sip, and sets it back down on the table.

"What the HELL are you doing?" I hiss.

There are two older women sitting across from us. One approximately in her eighties looks up from a knitting project, her eyebrows turning themselves into a scarf with disapproval.

"Just wanted to see what it tasted like," Steve shrugs. "You're right, it's terrible."

"Steven, let me explain something to you. This liquid is supposed to go in _my_ body. Not yours. Mine. It needs to be in there so they can SEE what's in there. Capiche?"

"It was just _one_ sip. They don't expect you to drink all of that, do you?"

"Yes, they do. They expect me to drink this and more."

"That's like, a whole quart in less than an hour."

"I've seen you do so much worse."

Steve looks over at the two older women, as if to somehow gain their support. "Don't you think it's a little ridiculous? Drinking all of that?"

The disapproving woman didn't find this conversation so amusing. "It's necessary."

The other woman, in her sixties, smiles instead. "How long have you two been together?"

Before Steven can answer, I interject, "Seven years too long."

"Ha, ha," Steve replies with sarcastic dryness.

A younger woman in her forties steps into the waiting room, and the two elder women rise to greet her. I realize it's a mother, daughter, and granddaughter trio.

It makes my heart aches for Grace. She's blissfully at school right now, probably excited for volleyball with her friends on the beach later. I told her she could go as long as she called me when she needed to be picked up from court. I didn't want her wandering down the beach towards one of those bars that will let anyone order.

"How's it looking?" says the mother.

"Obviously they can't say anything officially until the technician gets a look at the pictures," says the girl, "But it looks like it hasn't spread to any organs yet!"

They all smile hopefully and congratulate her on their way out the door. I don't need a big imagination to think what _IT_ might be.

The dye is making me feel sick. And like a dog to vomit, I just keep chugging it down.

...

I lay on the bed and they recite the prepared speech of what to expect. It might be a little loud, blah blah blah, I need to hold absolutely still, blah blah blah. If I move too much the pictures will be ruined. If I have any questions, they'll take a short break in the middle to let me ask. They can reach me through a microphone thingy. If I think the word _blah_ any more, I will have regressed to Grace's age. No, not even Grace's age. Charlie's age.

I tune them out, and I think about Charlie. He's so young. So curious and delighted about everything. Sort of bashful... he likes to tilt his head and grin, turning bright pink while I try to get him to admit whatever he's been up to lately. Interrogating him is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

I make a decision to "borrow" the kids for a trip. Just the three of us. There's got to be some place on this island that has a ferris wheel or something.

The MRI technician asks me what my favorite music is. Having not given any thought whatsoever to that question since a date with Amber, I panic and say the last thing I saw on Gracie's iPod.

"Mumford and Sons," I say quickly. And then I realize that is the absolute last kind of music that I am in the mood for. I don't even know the stuff. Do I even listen to music anymore? What was the last song I remember hearing in its entirety? Probably something by Ziggy Marley a few weeks ago or something. But it's too late to change my mind, though. The gurney-like table whirrs as it moves into the tube, and I feel my breath quicken as it moves past my chest and is now over my head.

I'm not entirely enclosed, I remind myself. I can still see the end of the room, but I can't shift my head around too much to look at the windows. At least they don't close a lid over this thing. The MRI machine starts up like a lawn mower next to my ear, then the beat of the machine grows louder and louder, like two construction vehicles in a head-on collision, repeated over and over again.

 _CLANK, CLANK, CLANK..._

Steve asked to accompany me into the room, and I told him no. When he protested, I told him that absolutely no metal in any form was allowed, and unless he wanted to leave his handgun that he always kept on him in a locker in the changing room, then...

He got the point, and promised he'd try to be patient and wait outside.

I gently reminded him that he wasn't allowed to get impatient and storm inside, anyway, because it would set the machine off and we'd have to start the whole process over again.

 _DUNK DUNK DUNK DUNK DUNKDUNKDUNKDUNK..._

This stupid thing is unbearable. How do KIDS handle it? I'm not even handling it! It's so god damn loud!

Mumford and Sons are apologetically singing in soft tones in the headphones, but I can't even hear them. Once in awhile I get the strain of a guitar and some sort of nice harmony. I guess the music is supposed to relax me. It doesn't.

I am getting more and more aggravated.

At some point, the machine and the music pauses.

"How're we doing in there?" says a voice in a headphone.

"Fine, just fine," I growl. "How much longer?"

"Another fifteen minutes."

"Okay," I mutter, and I try not to sigh for fear of shifting around too much.

DANK DUNK DANK DUNK DANK DUNK...

Mumford and Sons have disappeared. Apparently their musical device was not turned back on. And despite the fact that I groused about listening to this depressive folk crap and complained about how soft it was, now all I wanted was to have it back... anything at all to give me something to think about other than the tube I was in...

CLANK _DUNK_ CLANK _DUNK..._

I feel the closing in of a panic attack. The wall color looks funny to me; a little too yellow. My breathing grows shallower and shallower as I am trying to take deep breaths without jeapordizing the pictures.

I shut my eyes and breath slowly. In, and out. In, and out.

To my surprise, I am able to pull through it. The claustrophobia wears off, like a sunburn, and I'm okay. Still uncomfortable, but okay.

It's a long fifteen minutes.

...

"So when do you think you'll hear something?" Steve asks as we pull out of the hospital parking lot. The large pink building recedes in the distance, and I'm relieved again to be leaving it behind me for a little while. For a lot longer, I hope...

"Supposed to be a couple of days," I guess. "I mean that's how long it takes to develop those things. So maybe three days... I hope."

"So they're just checking?" Steve questions further. "Checking for..."

He's hoping I am going to fill in the gaps. "Checking for..." I continue blearily. "Abnormalities?"

"That's a very vague answer."

"I'm a man of mystery."

"No, you're really not. You wear your heart on your sleeve and make it very clear to everyone standing within hearing distance just how you're feeling on any given situation. That's why it's a little weird and, frankly, upsetting to your friends that you have been secretive and closed off. We worry about you."

"There's no need to worry."

"Chin says he's thinking you have some sort of bug because you're throwing up all the time. Combine that with the amount of times _I've_ been around when you've been unable to keep any food down... that seems like a lot."

"Maybe working with you has finally give me that bleeding stomach ulcer," I joke. And part of me wishes it was something as simple as that.

Steve gives me an annoyed face. "Don't kid like that, man. I'm driving you from the hospital and I am really, really hoping that we're all just making a big deal out of nothing. Stomach ulcers really aren't that funny, I hope it's nothing serious like that."

I cough into my hand. "Well me _either!"_

 _"Promise_ me you'll let me know as soon as you hear something."

"Hey, don't worry about it, all right? I got this, it's probably no big deal." The more indignant I act, the more he lays off. The more I pretend that none of this bothers me, the more my partner relaxes.

...

* * *

...

 _Thank you so much for your kind reviews, dear readers. Let me know what you think._

 _I hope you like that I've introduced crime-scene and investigative scenes that we would see in the show. There's more to the mystery and the team will be working on this case while Danny simultaneously deals with health issues._


	6. ma'i

_Wow, your reviews have been so kind! I can't even handle how sweet you all have been! I kept having "danny-isms" today, I've been spending so much time in his head that its happening in conversation... I kept using the sarcastic "That's nice... that's very nice" that Danny always says to Steve. Um yeah... oops I guess._

...

* * *

 _..._

ma`i

 _sick_

...

* * *

My first few hours of having Grace for the weekend is spent by trying to coax her into Daddy/Daughter time, while she's really not all that interested. She's sitting at the bar stool looking up at me with half-lidded, tired eyes. A long week at school, perhaps.

"Whaddya in the mood for, huh?" I ask. "You wana stay in, watch a movie or somethin'? Or we could go out. Just you and me. You hungry?"

"Danno, I'm really tired," Grace says sullenly. "I kind of just want to go hang out in my room and listen to some music."

"Sure, sure, okay," I give her a sort of imitated duck lip expression. "Long day?"

"It's a Friday night," Grace says, with _duh!_ eyes. "I love you, Danno, and I like coming over on weekends."

"There's a but. I sense a but."

"On Friday nights, everyone at school is going to a party. Or a sleepover or something. Games on the beach. Night surfing... concerts and stuff."

"Concerts and _stuff,"_ I repeat.

"I'm not going to any of that stuff," Grace says, dismounting the stool and heading for the hall.

"Hold up, wait a minute, monkey," I say, snagging her arm and reeling her in.

She gives me a disgruntled pout. "What?"

"You know if you wanted to go spend some time with your friends, all you gotta do is ask. I mean, depends on what it is, I might consider it... I'm not going to let you run your young self all over the island _but_ I'm not above driving you to a sleepover or a movie or the mall or whatever else it is you and your friends are doing. You don't always have to assume I'm going to say no."

Grace discreetly steps out of snagging reach. "I didn't think you were going to say no," she says. "I wasn't _invited_ to anything."

Ouch. Lousy, bitchy little friends. They don't deserve her. I can't tell her that, though...

"So maybe your friends are staying in tonight too," I say. "A movie and popcorn night with the ol' man."

"No, there's parties," Grace says factually. "Two or three probably. They don't want me coming because my dad's a cop and they think I'll be a snitch."

I gesture to the empty room. "My daughter: the snitch. And what, oh pray tell, are your friends up to that they're so afraid of ME knowing about?"

Grace shrugs in a mousy way. "I dunno. They're probably just making dumb phone calls and looking for their parents drinks. Smoke, maybe..."

"They think I can just pop over to your sleepover and arrest a bunch of minors for being dumb kids?"

Grace shrugs again. "They don't know how it works."

"That's true." I take a deep breath, lean forward, and brush a hand against her face. "I'm sorry you don't feel included, monkey. I don't think they're really your true friends if they don't appreciate you and try to have the type of fun any parent can know about."

Grace sighs. "Can I go to my room now?"

"Yes, you're on an official time out," I joke, coaxing a tiny smile out of her. "Get outta here! Go to your room! Listen to that CD you borrowed from your mother! Don't let me hear you slam that door."

Grace closes her bed room door gently, and I am gratified by the smile she's wearing as she departs. _So what sort of shitheads befriend my daughter and then drop her when its time to have fun because they don't want a cop to know about their 'fun'? My baby needs new friends..._

My cell rings, and its Amber. Er, Melissa. Whatever the hell she wants to go by. Sometimes it changes on any given day. _Shit._ I haven't spoke to her in... two weeks? My entire world has condensed to tunnel vision, and the only people I can see fitting into that narrow tunnel are my children, and my five-O team. Somehow I had completely forgotten I was capable of dating anyone, much less a gorgeous woman that actually likes me.

"Hello, beautiful," I answer the phone.

"Hi, Danny," she says, her voice even better sounding than I was imagining it. Honey-smooth and rich. But there's a breathless hitch, like she's _really_ excited to tell me that she's breaking up with me. "It's been awhile..."

"Yes, yes, it has, and that's entirely my bad. Between the kids and this case I have just been so busy... well, that's not entirely true. There's been some down time where I _shoulda_ called you up and just... completely zonked out. I've been exhausted and just not thinking. I'm sorry."

"I was just calling to say the same thing. I have been completely overwhelmed with... life. And..." she pauses and takes a deep breath. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about..."

"Me, too," I say, preparing myself for the worst, and realizing that she's the one that might need preparing...

"Oh, really?" she says curiously. " You go."

"Nah, nah, you first."

"Okay. Well. As you know I left New York in quite a hurry..."

"Yes..."

"With Frank being... gone... I mean, it's kind of hard to break the habit of worrying that he's going to come and find me."

My heart aches for her. "Come on, Amber," I say comfortingly, "You know that part of your life is behind you. Right? He can't hurt you any more."

"That's my point. He can't. So I want to finish up things that I left... abruptly. I want to go back to New York for a little while."

"Back to New York?"

"My mom is there right now... I want to try and meet with her and reconnect. Pick up some of the pieces that we left. I still have some belongings at Frank's apartment... his lawyer called me and said that I'd be welcome to come and get them. Priceless sorts of things... I left without saying goodbye to any of my coworkers. I just disappeared and never called. My boss probably thought I was murdered. It's just a lot..."

"Of unfinished business," I conclude.

"Yeah," she pauses. "Are you okay? I mean... I know it's not a break up, but... it's pretty much the opposite of a commitment."

"I know. It's hard to move forward at opposite ends of the globe."

"And we weren't really moving forward anyway," she whispers.

"I'm sorry," I reply, "You're right. We weren't."

"I need to try and mend that little piece of my life," she says, and I realize she may in fact be crying over the phone. This is the part where I drop everything and go over to her place, proclaiming my love and telling her I'll be waiting for her when she gets back...

...but it's just not in me. It's like all the fight has been drained, and I'm too tired to protest the loss of one active pursuit. And I think to myself; if I really loved her, and she really loved me, would we be having this conversation over the phone? Or over a dinner that I had actually invited her to?

"It's okay," I say. "I understand. Really. It wouldn't be fair of me to keep you tethered here when there's other important things that need attention. I think you're making the harder choice... which means it's probably the right choice."

She sniffs. "Thank you. It means a lot to have your support, even though I'm... leaving you behind."

It's also a test. If I truly loved her, I would offer to come with her. This is the part where I am supposed to say _You're not going by yourself. I'll be with you every step of the way._

"So," she sniffles again. "What was it you were going to call me about?"

"Well, it was only to say how sorry I was for keeping you on a line for two weeks of nothing," I say casually. "I just really wanted to make it clear that it wasn't because I was trying to ignore you... my life just got really, really _crowded._ I was hoping to apologize."

"Apology accepted," she says. There's a loud sound in the background, sort of like someone talking into a megaphone, listing... departure times.

"You're already at the airport," I say grimly. "You didn't want to call me from New York tomorrow... because frankly... that would suck..."

"Yes," she admits softly. "It all came together completely last minute. I'm sorry, Danny."

"So, no goodbye kiss, huh?"

"We're... we're boarding," she says with another light sob. "I feel terrible. You know I do. Just awful."

"Don't miss your flight," I say calmly, "I wish you luck. Really. You deserve it. I really hope you get things resolved."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Danny."

"Goodbye. Take care."

I press _end_ and feel something like regret... embarrassment... and relief. One less person who might be hurt by the shrapnel.

Dull thuds are coming from Grace's CD player, some sort of deep bass, hip-hop song with orchestra worked in, and lyrics that are...

" _Putchya under me, lovin' me, the moonlight on ya body breaking my resolve like nobody can... This feeling inside makes me into an unrighteous man..."_

Good lord. Completely unacceptable.

I march to her bedroom door and knock before cracking it open.

"Grace?" I call.

The music stops. "Come in..."

I open the door wider, and she's putting the CD back into its case. She hands it to me without a word.

"This is the one your mom wanted you to try?" I ask, glancing at the advisory sticker on the cover. The album art is a half-naked hip hop sort, baggy jeans and backwards cap, one hand almost down the front of his pants and the other hand holding a cigar. "And what possessed her to think this would be appropriate?"

"It's okay, Danno," Grace says. "I didn't like it at all. It's gross."

"That's because _you're_ a smart girl," I say.

"Dad," Grace says, rather urgently. "Mom's not _stupid._ She didn't really know anything about it, she just handed it to me in the stack she cleaned out of her bookshelf. _"_

"No... that's not what I meant. Sorry. Monkey, I didn't mean that she was stupid. Did I say that? No, no, I'm just proud of you. That's all. Do I tell you that enough? Because I am. And not just about this," I wave the cd back and forth. "Not for having good taste in music. In general. I am so proud of you."

"You're acting weird," Grace says suspiciously. "Did something happen?"

"No, nothing _happened,_ exactly, no... can't uh, a father be proud of his daughter?"

"Let's just watch a movie or something," Gracie suggests patiently, as if I'm the toddler hyped up on sugar and she just wants to plant me in front of the TV so that she can get a little peace and quiet.

...

"Grace?" I ask. I think my daughter nodded off before I did... who's the old man around here? The credits are rolling, and my phone is ringing at eight o' clock on a Friday night. Usually not a good sign.

She sleepily turns towards me and nearly disturbs the empty bowl of popcorn. "Hm?"

"Think you're old enough to not have a babysitter?"

Grace lets out a huge sigh of relief just shy of the hallelujah chorus and lifts her arms in the air. "It's about TIME!" she smiles. "I can take care of myself. I promise."

"Okay, so here's the deal. Impress me now and I'll quit calling Emma. Go to bed by eleven, putchyer dishes away..."

1 missed call from Steve.

"Don't have any parties?" she fills in, with a sly giggle.

"Yeah, well, that's a given," I reach over and gently jab her in the ribs where she's the most ticklish. She squeaks and dives off the couch and grabs the popcorn bowl before trotting quickly into the kitchen.

"And," I call after her, "Keep all the doors and windows locked and the curtains closed."

"I knoOOooow," she drones.

I hit redial quickly.

"What's up?" I ask.

"We have another body - but this one just happened. We have a suspect description and a partial license number. I know you're off and Grace is over, but is there any way..."

"It's the break we need," I supplied. "Grace is fine, she's a big girl. I'll come pick you up."

Of course, I don't pick him up at all. I drive to his place, and then I go and knock on his door, and before I know it he has somehow procured my keys from my pocket and then he's driving us to the crime scene down by the Ala Wai boat harbor.

A sort of raw smell of fear and blood has permeated the sidewalk and closed street where a dead man lies crumpled to a heap beneath the ATM machine. His wife huddles on the curb, wrapped in a shock blanket, rocking back and forth and speaking in halting tones to the paramedics. Max is kneeling by the body already.

"Hey," Steve says to Chin and Kono. "Any hit yet on the vehicle?"

"Not yet," Kono says. "HPD has every man out looking for it."

"This is Lorne Rawley, and his wife, Donna Rawley," Chin filled us in. "She was waiting for him in the car while he used the ATM. A silver Jetta drove by at a normal speed, and we can theorize that the driver saw him at the ATM and made a last-second decision. He made a hard right, reversed a few feet, stopped at the curb, jumped out and shot him, stole the cash that he had just retrieved, and then took off again."

"How much cash?" Steve asked.

"Donna says that Lorne was planning to make a down payment on a boat in cash tomorrow morning. He was withdrawing the maximum you can do - one thousand dollars."

"Another murder for a petty cash grab," Steve murmurs. "I don't get it. I just don't. There are other ways to steal money without getting caught and leaving a trail of bodies."

"Unless you don't care about getting caught eventually and you need the cash quicker than we can solve a murder," Chin raises his eyebrows. "So what can you use a few thousand in cash for that you need within a matter of days?"

"A rent payment, maybe?" I ask.

"But why kill for it?" Chin repeats.

"Okay, okay, um," I theorize. "A debt, then, with dangerous people. Maybe a kid involved with the wrong kind of people. Gang initiation. Fulfilling a quota for cash and a few bodies earns street credit and protection."

"Ahem," says Max politely, motioning us over. "I will have to confirm with the tests and get the body in for the autopsy and extract the bullet."

"But your best guess?" says Steve.

"I can tell you to the best degree of my knowledge that this was the same gun that killed Hashimoto, Tanya Healoka, and Tony and Miranda Peters. Of course, this is merely guesswork without any factual evidence but what my own eyes can see."

"Good work, Max," Steve pats his shoulder. "That's all I need to hear."

Steve gets a call on his phone. "Lou, what's up?" he asks. He turns towards us and gives us a helicopter sort of motion with one hand. _Load up, get moving._

"Where? ost office. The old one. Got it." He hangs up. "We've got him! Let's go!"

We sprint back towards the car and peel out, heading for King Street. Steve reconnects with Lou on the radio. "Okay, talk to us, Lou," he says. "What's happening?"

"They spotted the Jetta getting on the turnpike for the freeway," Lou says. "He pulled a U and he's heading back into town. If you keep going where you're going you might cut him off. And remember, he's armed..."

"Are you telling us officially this is a SWAT case and not to engage?" Steve smirks. "Because if I recall this was mine first."

"McGarret, I am just telling you to watch your back," Lou advises loudly.

"Yeah, uh huh, we love you too," I holler into the phone.

Suddenly, tires are screaming at a high pitch from somewhere to the left.

"SHIT!" Steve jerks the wheel to the right to avoid getting smashed into by the Jetta. It swerves, fishtails, and careens past us, accelerating to an impressive speed.

The yellow city lights of neighborhoods around the entrance to the freeway, where it starts to look less like paradise and more like poverty, pass by like spinning circus tops as Steve guns the engine to seventy. I hold on tight to the door.

"I am in pursuit," Steve says loudly into the radio, "We're heading... down to... hold on!" He makes a wide turn, tires screaming, and within seconds we're in downtown Honolulu again, and traffic is bad. The Jetta is jumping the curb to go around slow drivers, diving and weaving in and out of traffic and running red lights. Horns honk, people scream, cellphones are held up by tourists to catch a shot of the action.

"hey-ey-ey! Watch it watch it!" I scream. The Jetta had slammed on its breaks, jumped the curb again, and crashes with a metallic crunch into the base of a palm tree at the Duke statue. Asian tourists making the peace sign for their photos, climbing up onto the statue pedestal, scream with surprise and leap out of the way.

A man is jumping out of the front seat and headed for the dark beach, where only a few tiki torches flicker. Steve and I both jump out of the car and run as fast as we absolutely can, feet hitting the sand and chests heaving with the sprint.

A few white city lamps are creating small spheres of light, but beyond that, there's only water, miles of sand, enveloped in darkness pinpricked by stars. We circumnavigate the palm trees in the clearing before the real beach starts, the sand sucking at our shoes and making us feel slower. The man is weaving between trees, heading for the water. I'm almost on him. He's so close I can hear him breathing. I'm going to catch the sonofabitch. I'm so close -

I come around the edge of the tree and collide right into the man. I am not sure why he stopped, but he's not stopping now, punching me as hard as he can in the stomach and hitting the mass square-on... twice.

I hit the ground with a dull, anticlimactic thud, and the assailant is sprinting past a park bench towards the waves.

Steve is circling around the entrance to the beach, trying to come at him from the northern side and cut off access from running along the tide. He has his gun right on him. "STOP! FIVE-O! Get down on your knees and let me see your hands!"

The man pauses by the edge of the water, and looks right and left, as if debating to head back towards the Royal Hawaiian or to keep moving towards Diamond Head. What an exhausting choice. _I'm_ exhausted. I brace myself on my elbows and groan as I try to turn over and push myself up.

"There's no where to go!" Steve shouts. "Let me see your hands!"

Either direction isn't going to help him escape, but he's still thinking. He backs away from Steve nearly into the surf.

"LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS, NOW! Or I WILL SHOOT YOU!" Steve shouts. Lou's team comes screeching to a halt on the road. Someone is already setting up a barrier to this portion of the beach. Sorry, tourists. You'll have to get a picture with the Duke tomorrow.

The man slowly raises his hands, and before I'm sure he could even spell a four letter curse word that's revolving around in his brain, he has a mouth full of sand from his face being shoved into the beach, and McGarret is pulling his arms behind his back to handcuff them, looking over him at me.

"Danny!" he says loudly, the handcuffs clicking shut with a metallic crunch. "Danny - are you all right?" The revolving lights from all the emergency vehicles make me feel dizzy.

"Yeah," I moan, blinking and shaking my head. "I'm fine! Just got the wind knocked out of me." for emphasis, I cough hoarsely two or three times, sitting up and leaning my back against the palm tree. "He just has a strong arm."

Steve is dragging the man towards us. "You're sure?" he asks.

"Yeah... I'm... sure."

"Pigs," says the man, spitting at me. I roll my eyes.

Steve shakes the suspect. "Do that again and I accidentally drop you down that construction hole," he growls. "Danny... can you get up?"

I heave myself against the trunk and stand. "Yes, yes! I'm fine!"

Lou trots up, always looking remarkably similar to a giraffe in a bullet proof vest. "You okay?" he looks down at me. I give him a _please focus on Steve_ sort of wave, which he fortunately understands.

Steve smashes the man against another palm tree, patting him down until he feels a heavy bulge in the sock of his left foot. "Can you hold this for a sec?" he asks Lou.

Lou takes the handcuff chain and the back of the mans lapel and practically lifts him off the ground. Steve puts on a pair of latex gloves and removes an evidence bag from his pocket.

From the stocking of the man wriggling like a caught fish in Lou's uninteresting grip, Steve extracts the Colt Mustang XSP. And from his sweatshirt pocket, approximately one thousand dollars.

"You are under arrest for the killing of Lorne Rawley, Tony and Miranda Peters, Matthew Hashimoto, and Tanya Healoka," Steve says, handing the evidence bags to Lou and walking the man towards the flashing lights. "You have the right to remain silent... anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney..."

"So what the hell happened to you!?" Lou asks.

I'm rubbing where he hit me in the stomach. They couldn't see anything... and I couldn't necessarily see anything or feel anything before... but I can now. I've ignored it, maybe. But there is a definitive lump in my abdomen.

"Sucker punch," I wheeze. "Let's go."

...

We plant our suspect in the interrogation room to cool down. After multiple shouts of "PIGS!" and spitting episodes, we told him he was on time-out while we tried to get a hold of his lawyer. Ironically, his lawyer wasn't answering his phone or responding to text messages when his swarthy, loud-mouthed client needed him the most.

The man was on the far side of middle aged, gray hair, with a ruddy complexion. Muscular but losing the toned build that he likely had when he was our ages. In fact, he looked as if he were once a specimen that had deteriorated rapidly.

"ID says his name is Richard Miles," Kono sends a close-up scan of his ID on the screen. "Fifty years old. Works as a cashier at Walmart and does some on the side landscaping and construction work. There's hardly anything on this guy. He doesn't use social media."

"He may be quiet on the net but he's connected somehow to each of our victims, with the exception of Lorne Rawly," Chin says. "He was recent patient of Matthew Hashimoto. He only had two sessions and he wasn't covered by his insurance. Lorne Rawley was the list-minute mistake that got him caught. We're still not sure how he crossed paths with Tanya and Tony and Miranda Peters."

"Hold on, I'm getting a call back from the hospital," Kono holds up a finger and steps away from the table. "Uh huh... yeah. And his last appointment was when?" she paces a little, back and forth, back and forth. "And you can provide us with the schedule for the interns that day in writing? Okay. Thank you." She ends the call and looks up at us with a sigh of understanding. "Richard Miles has stage 4 colon cancer and he's a patient at the hospital. He would have interacted with Tony and Miranda Peters in the radiology department when they dropped off gift bags. They confirmed that Tanya was the interning nurse that took Richard's vitals before his last appointment." She leans against the table. "We can place him among all murder victims within 24 hours of their deaths."

"Good work, Kono," Steve praises her. "Really, really good work. We've got him. If there's anything else you can dig up on him... relatives, friends..."

"On it," Kono says.

My cell rings, and it's a number that I do not recognize. Huh. Weird.

"Detective Williams," I answer. I nod to the team with a _one moment_ hand motion.

"Hi there, Daniel," says the voice of Dr. Hayes, my cheerful doc of the never ending cheer that sounds the exact opposite of cheerful. "I know it's late and I apologize for calling you at this hour..."

"No, no problem," I say, with a look from Steve as I step away from the table and walk towards my office. "How can I help you?"

"Haha... well... it's how I'm going to help you, actually. First, the bad news."

 _shit._

shit shit shit.

"Okay," I say, a little shakily. "Lay it on me." I shut the door behind me.

"Well, the bad news is, the tumor looks malignant," Dr. Hayes says.

"Just for the sake of never having played this game before," I ask, "Malignant is the polite way of saying cancerous."

"Yeah. It is. I'm sorry."

I look up through the window. The team is pulling up the photos of the deceased on the screen, and there's an incoming call message from Miles's lawyer. Chin takes the call, and Steve and Kono are zeroed in on him.

"The good news is, I guess, that we absolutely cannot tell if it is officially malignant from the results of your MRI. MRI result is still inconclusive."

"That's the good news?" I ask sarcastically.

"Well, yeah. The bright side of this is, I have absolutely pushed the team into action. They're working you in in a month. I'm talking surgery, buddy. Laparoscopically to avoid extra trauma. The tumor is attached to your intestine, so they may have to take a little of that too. But here's why it's good news. Usually they would wait around on this for a few months to wait and see if it shrinks of its own accord. But since we can't prove its _not_ cancer, they're not going to delay. One month instead of three or four. Can you come to my office sometime next week for your surgery consultation? We can go over all the tiny details in person."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say. I'm suddenly feeling loose, like my joints are coming undone. I sit heavily in a chair by the desk. Unfortunately I forgot each office and door is completely transparent. Chin ends the call, and looks over at my office. Steve follows his gaze.

I bury my face in my hand for a moment. "Okay. Yeah. What time?"

"Wednesday okay?"

"Sure, sure, sure," I say. "Can we make it early - before work?"

"My earliest opening is seven A.M."

"I can do it," I write down _CONSULTATION_ _\- 7 AM WED._ "Thanks, man."

"We're going to take care of you," Dr. Hayes says firmly. "I am advocating for you in every step of this, okay? Signing you in with one of loveliest surgeons on the island. Dr. Muaikai. She's literally the most wonderful human being on the planet. You'll be in great hands. We'll talk again soon. You've got people around?" he adds, anxiously. "Friends and family in the area, am I right?"

I look up at Steve. "Yeah, my family's right here with me."

"Good, good. Keep them in the loop. This could be life changing, I am not going to lie. You'll need a strong support team if this ends up being cancer. You doing okay?"

"Yeah. Sure. I mean," I break into a nervous giggle, the sort of machine-gun chuckle I haven't used since I had a proximity bomb pointing it's red laser beam in the center of my chest. "What do you think? I have to get used to the idea."

"It will take some getting used to. And again, I am so sorry for calling this late on a Friday night... I'm going to think of it as a house call. Something doctors don't do anymore. But I knew you'd rather know sooner than wait all weekend on pins and needles and then hear it from my assistant on Monday morning."

"I appreciate that," I say. "I'll see you Wednesday..."

"See you Wednesday. Take care."

 _end call._

I sit absolutely still on the edge of the desk. I'm staring at the wall and my brain shuts down completely. I get the feeling I'm going into a mild state of shock, but even that doesn't really register. I can't breathe or process. I've been reduced to the absolute bare minimum of human cognitive development, holding the phone loosely in my hands, eyes completely glazed over and looking at nothing.

The door opens. "Danny."

My brain tells my mouth to open and do funny things to try and communicate with another human. But nothing happens.

"Danno!"

My eyes shift. "What?" I croak.

Steve comes in and shuts the door behind him. The cousins are standing by the console staring after him, both wearing matching rabbit-like expressions.

"That was the lawyer," Steve says. "He's on his way. He doesn't want to touch the accusations, he just wants to tell us about Miles's condition and the end-of-life arrangements that he has made. We'll need to get a defense lawyer for him."

"Uh huh. Okay."

"So are you going to tell me what was that all about?" Steve asks sternly.

"What, that?" I look down at the phone in my hand. "Oh, that, uh, that was nothing. Just... nothing good, as usual."

"Why? Was it Rachel or something?"

"I'll tell you about it later. Let's go talk to our suspect."

"You sure?" Steve sounds surprised.

I put the phone in my pocket and stand up robotically, walking ahead of him to the door. "Let's go talk to this son of a bitch."

When I grasp the door handle, my hand is visibly shaking. I stuff my hands quickly into my pockets.

We walk downstairs into the greenish hued basement. The interrogation room, complete with drain-in-floor and a single spotlight over where the suspect is handcuffed to a chair, is probably Steve McGarret's favorite room and my least favorite. Steve enjoys playing bad cop. I think I'd just enjoy a room that doesn't make me want to take a nap.

Richard Miles, subdued at last. His eyes are red from weeping in unchecked rage and grief. He looks shallow now, empty of the aggression that would make him speed, spit, punch, and run for his life. He's caught now and there's no going back.

"Richard Miles, we're going to appoint you a defense lawyer," Steve introduces the issue at hand rather quickly. "We're here because we need to know why you are killed innocent people."

Richard looks over at me, then back at Steve. "I'm not saying _anything_ without the lawyer. I am NOT talking."

"You're not talking?" I mumble. "You know, cuz, it sounds to me... like he's actually sort of talking?"

"That certainly _sounded_ like talking," Steve replies.

"I mean, words making a sentence," I suggest. "That's kind of talking."

"Really funny," Richard says quietly. "You _know_ what I meant."

"Maybe," I say. "What we don't know is why you shot Tony, Miranda, Matthew, Tanya, and Lorne. Why would you do it? A quick cash grab might actually have some merits, you know. Ten bucks for a movie. Maybe a few bucks for drugstore candy. But leaving bodies behind is sort of a giveaway..."

"I mean, you'd think that'd be a no brainer," Steve gestures to me. "Don't you think that's a dumb thing to do?"

"I personally wouldn't do it," I reply.

"It's easier to spend the money you stole without looking over your shoulder for homocide detectives," Steve says. "Why not just simplify the robbing part of it by _not_ killing anyone?"

"Maybe we need to refresh your memory a bit," I say. "Tony and Miranda. Nice couple. Donated to the same radiology department where you were getting treatments for cancer. You ran into them and... what? Realized they were loaded? Followed them home and shot them on the beach and then cleaned them out financially?"

Richard looks at me with a hard expression, saying nothing.

"Matthew Hashimoto... your counselor. I heard he was a nice guy. We spoke to his wife and realized he had carried a lot of cash on him at all times. You know what we _didn't_ find on his body? Cash."

"Don't forget Tanya," Steve says in a low tone. "A young, beautiful girl, just on the cusp of starting her career and living a good life. Money, gone. Life, gone. Parents? Absolutely devastated. And for what? A measly three hundred dollars."

"And tonight you made a boo boo," I say sarcastically. "You got yourself caught because of a last minute decision. Saw Lorne at the ATM and thought - what the hell! Maybe he's grabbing more than a twenty! And it was a jackpot... one thousand dollars!"

"Ding ding ding!" Steve says. "But you didn't know his wife was watching from the car."

Richard's head shot up from his chest, eyes wide.

"She can identify you. She gave us your description, your license plate..."

Richard shakes his head again and looks away.

The door behind us creeps open, and Chin is outside, motioning to us. Steve and I quickly make our departure.

"What have we got?" Steve asks.

"Richard Miles has an his ex-wife that lives on the mainland in Texas," Chin says. "He has sole custody of a daughter named Brianna, age seventeen. Brianna was worried when her Dad didn't come home yesterday, and she's been trying to raise him on the phone. She went to HPD to file a missing persons report less than an hour ago. And they told her he'd been arrested on the beach."

"Okay," Steve takes a minute to process this. "How long before we can get Brianna here?"

"I sent Kono to go pick her up."

"Okay, good," Steve looks at me.

I am in so much pain right now I can hardly think. Less of the physical pain from being punched in my god-damn tumor but more of the emotional pain that flooded in when I was pulled from the interrogation room. Work was overriding the shock and helping me think of something else. Now, I can't _stop_ thinking.

 _What if that was me, sitting in that chair?_

"I think we've got him," I say. "I think we've got this."

"Wana give it another go, till the daughter gets here?" Steve asks.

"Yeah. I think he'll spill his motive."

"I'll be upstairs," Chin says. "I'll call you when she's here."

We open the door again, and step into the cool darkness of the interrogation room. Richard keeps his chin down to his chest.

Steve bends down and rests his hands on his knees, getting into Richard's face. "Your daughter is on her way here right now," he says softly.

"No, no," whimpers Richard. "I don't want her to see me like this."

"Maybe you shouldn't have murdered anyone, then?" I suggest. "That seems a little obvious to me. Maybe don't kill people. And maybe she won't see you like anything at all except dear ol' Dad, sick and dying and needing plenty of care."

Richard shakes his head, pained and shutting his eyes to avoid Steve's.

"I pulled the murder weapon out of your damn sock," Steve reminds him. "So why hold back now? We have the murder weapon. A witness. Evidence. Everything that we need to convict you and throw you into a dirty hole for the rest of your miserable life."

Richard looks away, chin trembling.

"Oh, does that make you sad?" Steve says louder. "What is it, huh? Yeah, I'm talking to you, BIG shot. Were you jealous that they were all living happy, long lives? And you weren't? Did you want to take that from them to make yourself feel better?" When he doesn't answer, Steve gets frustrated and steps away. "Do you get it?" Steve asks me. "Why anyone would kill someone just because they were probably going to die first?"

And then suddenly, I _did_ get it.

"Sure, I get it," I shrug sarcastically. "They had to die. Isn't that right, Richard?" I step closer and I mirror Steve's earlier movements, hands on my knees and getting right into his face. "They had to die otherwise they might tell someone it was you stealing their money. You couldn't risk it because it wasn't going to be _your_ money. If that was your money you might not have killed anyone, but you didn't want anyone to connect the dots between the victims and your daughter. Isn't that right?"

Richard looks at me, his eyes hollow and yet still surprised.

"You probably got a little rainy day fund for your daughter. You wana, you know, _provide_ for her? Maybe make sure there's a little extra stuffed under the mattress for emergencies? Nothing too obvious, mind you, a hundy there, a hundy there..."

"That's not," Richard protests hoarsely. "That's not true."

"But it felt good pulling that trigger, too. Like the man said... jealous. They didn't deserve to go on as they were, untouched by the tragedy you were facing every day. So you wanted to rob people - no big deal! But you chose your victims carefully! They were the ones you wanted dead. And you tell yourself it's all for _Brianna."_

"Don't you say her name," Richard hisses through gritted teeth. "What do you care? You don't get it, there's no way you could possibly understand."

"But that's just the thing, you son of a bitch," I slam my hands down on the arms of the chair and practically spit right back into his face. "I do understand. I've got a daughter of my own, you hear me? I've got a daughter and possible diagnosis with a capital C looming over my head right now and I am SURE as well wondering how the f*ck I am going to provide for her if I die young. Okay? So don't you f*cking tell me what I do or don't understand. Cuz I understand you all too perfectly."

"Danny," Steve's voice sounds stricken. I ignore him.

"You're not some angelic human for being brave and trying to provide for your family in the wake of your certain death," I say. "You were probably scum before and you're scum now. All that money tucked away for Brianna is going into evidence bags and eventually it will find its way back to the grieving families of the victims. And she won't see a penny of it, you _f*cking dirt bag._ All that for nothing. It's the lazy way to provide for someone. Why don't you try the right thing? A life insurance policy? Maybe sell your Jetta? But no... I bet that didn't even occur to you."

"Danny," Steve repeats, urgently.

"I want to see my daughter," Richard says. "I want to say I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" I repeat. "The man says he's sorry. I'm sure you're sorry you're going straight to hell. But I bet you're not sorry to the families of the Peters waiting back on the mainland. I bet you're not sorry for Tanya's loving parents. I bet you're not sorry for the Hashimoto family, or for Donna Rawley. I bet you're not even sorry for Brianna. After all, she gets to live. You don't."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry for all of it!" Richard gasps. "I get it, okay? I get it! I'm going to jail and I'm going to die there! All right? You happy? I'm sure those families are super bummed I killed them! I would take it back if I could! If I could have found another way I would have! But I had nothing, don't you get it? All the medical bills piled up and went to collections and I lost my job and Brianna never had a spare penny to take herself out to coffee or go see a movie with her friends. I just wanted something on the side for her. That's it. I never intended to hurt anyone."

"Sure you didn't," I tap the arm of the chair thoughtfully. "I am sure that gun just accidentally went off five times." I turn away and head for the door, knowing full well that Steve is probably about to tear my head off.

He follows me out, and the door shuts behind us. Then he passes me, marching down the hall.

"Steven," I say slowly, but I was preemptive. He's not leaving - he's pacing. He makes a u-turn and marches back towards me, his face turning dark with something sort of like rage, grief, and a whole other range of emotion that I probably can't identify in words.

"Okay - what the hell was that in there?" he barks at me. "You're going to give me a heart attack! I mean you did well, that was good," he takes a deep breath and laces his hand behind his head. "You got through to him. Which I guess was the whole point. But you can't scare me like that, man."

I realize, sort of horrified, that he doesn't think I was serious. "Maybe you should sit down," I suggest, with a pained grimace. "I don't know for sure. The MRI test was still inconclusive."

"No, no, no," Steve's chin trembles. I've seen the man cry three... or maybe four? times in my life. Only two times come to mind now; when his Aunt Deb passed away. After the funeral we sat in his yard, in two lounge chairs, and looked out at the water. He had to set his beer aside and stand, walking over to the surf and looked towards the horizon, his shoulders shaking with sobs. I waited an appropriate amount of time before going over and putting a supporting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it tight and not saying a word.

The second time I remember is when he was still high from the hallucinogen drug that Wo Fat had given him, and he thought his father was still alive. When we gently reminded him during his rescue what year it was and that his father had passed away, he had, again, unashamedly cried like a lost child. There was nothing we could do for him then, except get him out of the warehouse, get him to the hospital, and let him re-live an entire five years worth of grief all over again.

"Not again," I catch Steve whispering it, like a mantra. He's leaning against the wall and facing across the hall, not looking at me. He bows his head and takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay." he says, a little louder. "What do you need?" he looks at me. "How do we fight this?"

"Surgery, apparently," I shrug, like its no big deal.

He's surprised at my nonchalance. "How long have you known?"

"Fifteen minutes?" I guess.

"The phone call."

"My doctor."

"Okay, okay," Steve is trying to take it all in. "So what do we do first? How can I help?"

"There's really nothing you can..."

"NO!" Steve shouts abruptly. "There is absolutely something I can do. Do not TELL me there isn't anything I can do. I couldn't do a damn thing about my Aunt Deb and I _swear_ to god I can do something about _you._ We're going to fight this. I'll be with you every step of the way. I don't care what it takes."

"Let's just take it down a notch," I suggest. "I'm not... I don't want to be your _project,_ Steven, okay? I just want to get through this. Try to be as normal as possible. It might be nothing. What if it IS nothing? Then we waste all that emotion for NOTHING!"

"But what if its not?" Steve asks. He looks like I just thrust an iron spear through his chest. "I can't lose you."

"Then don't," I say firmly. "You won't."

I can see Steve's wheels turning. He's realizing oh-so-slowly that _I'm_ the one comforting him, that I'm calming _him_ down, that he needs my assurances and promises that everything will be fine. And suddenly the lights turn on.

"Oh my god, Danny," Steve almost braces himself on my shoulder. "Are you okay right now? Tell me what you're thinking."

"What I'm thinking - what I'm thinking?" I repeat, the machine-gun giggle unfortunately making an appearance again. "I'm thinking nothing. I can't think. If I think I'll go nuts."

"You should go home and be with Gracie."

"I should. Yes I should."

"Does she..." Steve pauses.

"No," I say quickly. "I have to talk to Rachel first."

"And Amber?"

"She left."

"Wait - what? Left for where?"

"She went back to New York."

"When did this happen?"

"A few hours ago," I sigh. "Look. I don't... want to talk about this any more. Okay?"

"You've got to give me something, I'm imagining the absolute worst," Steve pleads. "But I think... yeah, I think we should sit down."

We both hit a wall with our backs and slide down, facing each other across the hallway. The cinderblocks are cold against my back.

I lift my shirt and point to a slight bulge. "See that?" I ask.

"See what?" Steve leans forward. "What - that?" He sobers. "It's not just old man flab."

"A tumor, on my intestine," I say. "They're going to take it out next month." I roll my shirt back down.

"For all these tests," Steve confesses, "I thought they were looking for signs of something. Not looking at something specific that needed identifying."

I lay my head back against the wall and say nothing at first. "I didn't want to say anything and cry wolf."

"We can pray that we're both just crying a whole lot of wolf right now," Steve chuckles uncomfortably, but its more like a sob. "So when he hit you with the pipe all those weeks ago..."

"He hit the effing tumor."

"And you can't keep food down..."

"Apparently it's growing very quickly and it's smashing all my organs together. So all of the above," I start naming symptoms off on my fingers. "Anemia. Constipation. Intense, stabbing pains without warning. Vomiting. Dizziness. And that freaky seizure shit show that went down after the bust."

"Richard punched you in the stomach," Steve suddenly remembers. "You went down hard and I thought... Jesus. Do we need to get it looked at again?"

"I know your favorite pastime is taking me to the ER, but no. I have a consultation next week. It's fine."

"You're sure?"

"It just knocked the wind out of me, I promise. Okay? Quit worrying."

"Not likely."

"I know."

Chin appears at the end of the hall. "Hey, I just got the..." he trails off, uncertain. He walks into the hall and looks down at us. "You two just look like you got your asses handed to you. What happened?"

"Were you listening in on the interrogation room?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, obviously. You were really able to get through to him. He basically admitted everything... that was impressive."

"So that cancer thing I said?" I grimace again. "the thing I said about possibly having it? Not a joke." It's back - the freaky cackle. God, I hate laughing like this. I sound like a post-puberty Woody Woodpecker. "Surprise," I say, sarcastically, "I have a tumor. So that's... my news. What's yours?"

Chin takes a deep, painful breath. "Mind if I join you?" he asks slowly.

I make a sweeping motion. _Be my guest!_

He sits down beside Steve, giving him a side glance and giving him three pats to the knee. "So," he says gently, "Which one of you two wants to fill me in on the details?"

"I've got Brianna waiting!" Kono trots down the stairs, taking two at a time. "It's like a ghost town upstairs - I finally wrangled Abby out of some paperwork to babysit Brianna while I came to find you guys." she jogs to a halt and notices everyone's faces. Especially Steve's - we all know his post-crying look. And it's not a normal look. "What's going on, guys?" Kono asks.

"Have a seat, cuz," Chin gestures. Kono looks perpetually afraid of what we're all about to say or do. Eyes wide, she slides down the wall next to me. The four of us, the original team, sit for a second much too long in silence.

"You guys are scaring me," Kono says.

My tongue has fused to the roof of my mouth. I'm tired of speculations.

"Danny has a fast-growing tumor," Steve says, with a glance at me. I nod for him to continue. "He's going to have surgery next month to get it removed."

Keno sucks in a breath quickly. "W-what?" she turns to me. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Not a joke, unfortunately, it's the truth," I say slowly. "They think it's cancer. But they can't tell until they actually open me up and look at it."

Kono loops her arm through mine and tucks her head on my shoulder. "I am so sorry, Danno," she whispers. "What can we do?"

"This is nice for a start," I reply, resting my head on top of hers. "I don't know what's going to happen in the next few weeks." I give her hand a squeeze, and she retracts. Kono has always been at the top of the list for good hugs with good timing. "I don't ... know anything," I repeat, and suddenly panic is welling up inside of me so fast that I don't know how it's happening or where it's happening or why it feels like I'm drowning, or fainting, or both.

I cross my arms over my knees and rest my forehead on them, trying to think past this, trying to breathe deeply. I am vaguely aware that I am saying _I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do_ over and over again, but even after ten times, it doesn't seem like its enough.

It will never be enough.

Maybe when this panic attack subsides, I'll think of something helpful to say.

Kono has looped her arm over me, and Steve might be weeping, I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

My family waits with me until I'm ready to go upstairs. I want to get home, if nothing for the comfort of knowing my daughter is safely sleeping, blissfully unaware and dreaming in her own bed.

...

* * *

 _..._

 _Dear reviewers;_

 _thank you so much for your warm support and wonderful thoughts on these latest chapters. It means so much to me. I know I said these were based on my experiences, but I think you're all knowledgable enough to know all the crime and mystery-solving is just pure Five-O, nothing I've ever experienced! It's fun to do a little action. I can't wait to work more mystery and crime and car chases into my story. I like to be as accurate as possible to character and sometimes plot._

 _However, getting punched in the tumor WAS something I experienced. Unfortunately it was just a very rowdy and excited ten-year-old cousin that doesn't quite understand that wrestling with his older brothers and playing with me are two entirely different styles of fighting._

 _I don't know how in-character this is for Steve, and again, I'm drawing from my own experiences here. One of my best friends... the one in Maui, actually, had a really hard time with my diagnosis. I was literally worried sick about her. I didn't hear from her for awhile because she was so overwhelmed and lost in fear and grief that she withdrew from all contact except her mom for a few days. The moments between Danny and Steve were written more like the moments between me and my friend than stuff I thought would actually occur on the show. So please tell me when you feel like things are out of character! I can take constructive criticisms! After all, this IS a story, and I am a learning and imperfect writer!_

 _Thanks for all your wishes, hugs, and prayers that I've been receiving in private messages. You're all wonderful._


	7. Kaikamahine

_..._

 _Kaikamahine_

Daughter

* * *

...

I drop into bed fully clothed that night. Sleep in, but only a little. I make coffee and read the paper in the morning before my daughter is awake. Then I shower and make breakfast as per the usual. Grace awakens to the smell of scrambled eggs, and eats breakfast.

We chat, as usual. She claims the bathroom to shower, and do her hair. Maybe make up. I don't know. And I'm not going to tell her no.

While she's enclosed and out of earshot, I sweep my hand across the counter with a hoarse yell, knocking our mugs and plates to the floor, letting them shatter and grabbing a glass of water and throwing it against the patio door.

Then I stand for a minute, heaving, wondering at myself for a sudden loss of temper with bewilderment. Then I clean up the glass.

I'm sweeping up the last of the shards when Grace returns, and she thinks nothing of it.

...

I sit across from my doctor and he's leveling his gaze at me.

Preparing me for the worst. Or the best?

"Laparoscopic surgery really is an incredible procedure," he's saying, "By only making small incisions and inflating the abdomen we can safely remove the tumor with the least amount of trauma possible."

Maybe the best.

"Let me play devil's advocate for a moment," I say, "What if it turns out to be cancerous?"

"It's still a surgical removal..."

"I mean, after."

"Then we're looking at treatment. I prefer, personally, the effects of chemotherapy. We'd be looking at a complete lifestyle change... the new life. Treatments, support systems, regular check-ins, the whole nine yards."

"Great."

"Let's cross that bridge when we get there."

"Do you have any advise for someone who recently lost someone to cancer who just needs to see the positive side of this right now?"

My doctor tilts his head. "Is this for you, or for your young man in the waiting room?"

"He's not _MY_ young man! He's my partner. In crime. I mean, solving crimes. Literally."

"I'm well aware that detectives have partners for solving crimes," my doctor chuckles, and quickly sobers. "If your partner has recently lost someone to cancer, and now fears the same for you, then I do not think there's anything _I_ nor you can say that will change where his headspace is at. Though I'm hoping he and the others are supporting you. All too often we find those that are sick are so busy trying to comfort others who are grieving that they don't worry about themselves. Many women with breast cancer find themselves comforting Mom and Grandma while they cry, forcing the ill ones to be stronger than their own capacity. Sometimes we have to acknowledge our weaknesses and rely on someone else. Maybe they need to be reminded that they're our strength."

"I guess that's my problem then," I sigh, and stretch my aching lower back.

"It's never too late to try," says my doctor, way too cheerfully. "But why ask for trouble? I am _certain_ it's benign. The only alarming thing that showed on the recent test results was the size."

"Grapefruit."

"Bigger than a grapefruit. More like a coconut. _After_ the outer part comes off."

"That means its bigger than last time," I exclaim, a little loudly.

"Growing at an alarming rate," says my doctor, "Just one more month, Daniel. We'll have it out of you."

...

"How'd it go?" Steve asks, rising up out of his chair in the waiting room. Not the tallest man in the world, but tall enough, he poses an intimidating figure in a small room of twelve chairs and five middle-aged men and women. Especially since he's the only one in shape, packing, and speaking above a whisper.

I slap my paperwork against his stomach, which he catches with an _oomph._

"Check it for yourself," I say, fighting a grin at his reaction. "It's scheduled for the beginning of next month."

"Well, we figured that," he begins to flip through the papers, a furrowed brow and pursed lip expression that I know all too well. "Does it say anything about what we can do until that?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. To keep anything from turning cancerous?"

"I'll eat a brazil nut every day or something."

"I'm pretty sure that's for gluten intolerance."

"Kale, then."

"What?"

"Kale. I'll just be good and eat my veggies."

"What else?" Steve pesters.

I throw my hands out confusedly. "What do you want me to say? If there were anything truly specific that guarantees you won't get cancer, don't you think everyone would be doing it?"

Steve pauses, bites his lip, and gives a very military-style nod. "You're right. Sorry. I'm not thinking straight."

"I'm right?" I repeat, gesturing to an invisible audience. "You folks heard that, right? The man says I'm right. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity to be considered right by the everlastingly-right Commander McGarret."

...

It's time to call her.

 _Ring, ring._

"Daniel," greets Rachel crisply.

"Hi," I say noncommittally. "I was wondering if... if you had some time today to grab coffee. I had something I wanted to discuss with you."

A pinched sigh escapes her lips. "It's not about me letting Grace wear make up, is it?"

"No, no, nothing like that..."

"Does it concern Grace?"

"Indirectly. But yes, it concerns her. Mostly me."

"Is it something serious?" she asks, her annoyed tone deflating.

"Yes..."

"Does it have something to do with our custody agreement?" Rachel erupts.

"No! It doesn't!"

"Alright, _then,"_ Rachel calms down again, and I can hear the sounds of her sitting at her dining room table. "Then whatever it is, we can talk about it now."

"Rach, I don't want to do this over the phone..."

"I'm not getting coffee with my ex-husband today. It's not going to happen."

I had caught her on a bad day. It really was give or take whether or not she was going to be a civil ex or a petulant one.

"Rachel, I am _asking_ you to please meet me somewhere so we can talk."

"Either you tell me what's going on right now with our daughter, or we won't talk at all."

"It's not Grace, it's me," I say, heaving a sigh and finally giving up. _I'm just too damn tired for this..._ "I'm having a small procedure during a week I'm supposed to have Grace next month. I'm hoping that she can stay with you, and we'll switch out for a week in the fall instead. Would that be all right?"

"That's not a _problem,_ Daniel, for her to simply stay in her own room instead of packing a bag to come see you," she replies, her tone clipped, as if Grace doesn't have her own room here with her own stuff in the closet and drawers. "Of course she can stay." She takes a drink of something in the background. "What's the procedure?"

"I have a... tumor."

Silence, and a sudden intake of breath.

"Rachel..."

"What sort of tumor? Is it cancerous?"

"They don't know."

"How can they NOT know? They have specialists for this sort of thing."

"They just don't, okay? I don't know why they can't tell, but they can't, so, I'm going in for surgery next month."

She's quiet, and careful with choosing her next words. "I'm sorry, Daniel. This wasn't the conversation I was expecting. I'll come over now... if you need anything. Tell me. Shall I come over?"

"Naw, naw, don't worry. I'll let you know. But... I need to tell Grace eventually. With this whole co-parenting _thing_ I wanted to get some feedback first..."

"Don't tell Grace!" Rachel snaps.

"What do you mean _don't tell her?_ My daughter needs to know eventually."

"I mean, don't tell her _yet_ ," Rachel pleads quietly. "She worries. She bottles up her worries inside and turns into a secluded... you know," for once, she acknowledges that I, too, know who our daughter is. "You know how she is."

"You know I do."

"I have suggestions... no, _conditions_ for when you tell her."

"Okay... shoot."

"Give her the absolute maximum amount of time before you tell her. If you can wait as long as the day before your procedure, do it. Keep her from worrying and try to act as if its no big deal. I cannot handle the thought of our daughter worried for you having cancer if this turns out to be a false alarm."

"I am surprised to say I agree with you."

"Tell her before she is set to come back home... say you tell her on a Saturday and she comes home Sunday. She'll want to process this. But then she'll want her mother... an outsider's rationale to come to."

"Rachel, I can't believe I am saying this twice in a row, but I agree with you."

"See?" she says softly. "We can co-parent."

"Why do I always have to be heading for or in a hospital for us to get along?" I chuckle.

She laughs a little, tearfully. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. And I'd apologize for telling you over the _phone,_ but..."

"That's entirely my fault. I am shocked to say, Danny Williams, that I agree with you."

"Miracles do happen."

"Every day," Rachel replies, with a rare sentimentality. "When did you find this out?"

"Very, very recently. Things have been weird for awhile and I finally got a confirmation from the doctor this last week that it was a tumor. Everything has kind of moved along quickly from there. I had my consultation and they scheduled the surgery. So now all I have to do is wait."

"Please, will you tell me if you need anything?"

"I will, but..."

"I know... I'm sure your team has you covered. But that's... work. If you need someone who _isn't_ a coworker. You know what I mean. For support."

She didn't understand that I didn't have coworkers... I had family. But I wasn't going to go through that argument with her... again.

"I'll... I'll come over while you recover and bring Charlie," she adds, "He's too young to understand but I know you'll want to see him."

"I miss him."

"I know, and you _know_ I would have let him visit with Grace this week if he didn't have a fever..."

"Rach, it's ok. I get it. I wouldn't want him going anywhere either. He's doing okay now?"

"Much better. Hey... Charlie, honey, come in here for a moment. Will you come to the phone and say 'bye-bye' to Danno?"

"Bye bye!" erupts a tiny voice.

"Hey... hey buddy!" I say, my voice actually choking up a little.

"What's up Dannooooo," Charlie says with a giggle.

"Oh, you know, nothing much," my voice forces itself around the threat of tears. "How are you? You being a good boy?"

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie replies. "Mommy?" he asks, in a conspiring whisper. " _Can I have a joooooose?"_

"Of course, sweetheart," Rachel's voice grows distracted. "Daniel, I should probably..."

"It's okay, go, there's really nothing more we need to talk about," I say casually. "If you have any questions later on, you can text me. No problem."

"I thought you didn't like texting me."

"Circumstances alter cases."

"Okay, then I might. Take care. You know I mean it."

"I do. And thank you. I'll let you know before I tell Grace."

"Thank you."

...

 _So this is what morning sickness is like,_ I think with an ironic, pained smile, bent over the toilet the following morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after. Stomach pains with every bowel movement and throwing up everything I eat. It seems like my new life now. I don't remember how it feels to keep down food on a regular basis.

I wipe my mouth and wash my hands, walking slowly back to the office. The paperwork doesn't stop, so why should I?  
Chin's giving me a look from the console table. He and Kono look like they're in cahoots about something.

"What?" I ask, tugging on my pants. I think I need to go in another belt size.

"You okay?" Chin asks.

"Sure I'm okay, don't I look okay?" I mumble with a shrug.

"To be honest, not really," Kono says, coming around the edge of the table for a closer look at me. "You're looking... skinny."

"All right, Twiggy, you let me know how skinny is too skinny, okay?"

Kono tries to laugh but doesn't find it funny enough. "You've lost weight."

"Probably," I say, like its no big deal.

"I mean... since yesterday," Kono adds.

"I appreciate your concern," I say, folding my hands together, "But probably not since yesterday. Probably just... in general. I don't eat much. So..." I put my hands back onto the console. "Enough about me. What's new here?"

Kono gives me a side-eye. So does Chin.

"Can we just get through it, please?" I ask. "I promise we can go over all the gruesome details later. For now I just want to work like everything's normal. Okay?"

"Sure thing, brah," Chin hits the keypad with graceful dexterity and swipes a photo up onto the screen.

"HPD just put out a warning to all law enforcement on the island. One of their rookies, a young woman named Ailani Kapule, was assaulted when she and her SO were doing a routine check in the Pineapple Motor Home Park."

A picture flies up on screen... Ailani's brutally bloodied face, mashed into a pulp, with gauzes, bandages, and stitches covering a variety of portions. She looks as if she had to have intense surgery just to save the existence of her eye.

"Her partner, Mark Cross, said that he and Ailani were asked to check in on an elderly woman who hadn't answered her daughter's phone calls for several days. Mrs. Estevez was fine but while Mark spoke with her by the front door, Ailani walked around to the back, where there's a space between the small deck and the next motor home..."

Another photograph on the screen. The motor home behind them, dark blue. A small space of grass that could be considered a yard, and then the deck behind Mrs. Estevez's home.

"She was found here," Kono pointed to the grassy space. "After a minute Officer Cross thought he heard several thumps, and when he called out to his partner, no answer."

I shiver. That's the worst feeling in the world... unfortunately it's one I've had before. _Steve, Steve!_ I've shouted, and waited. When the answer was delayed, there's a moment of fear deep within the pit of one's stomach that doesn't compare to anything on this earth.

"He came around the corner of the house and saw her on the ground, turned onto her stomach. For a moment he thought she had just fainted because of the heat, and he thought he saw a brief glimpse of someone leaving the side yard of the blue motor home. When he turned her over and saw her face, he realized she'd been attacked by someone. She had been first knocked over from the back, and hit several times with a fist in the skull. She turned over and tried to fight back, but she received several more punches in the face, and then he pulled out a knife and tried to stab her in the eye. It glanced off her temple instead, and she was lucky the blade was dull. He dropped the knife but there were no fingerprints."

"Does she have a description of her assailant?" Chin asks.

"A man. Six foot six, maybe seven. Wearing a stocking cap mask and black clothes. Military lace-up boots."

I whistle, and shiver again. "Shit. Ailani is how tall?"

"Five-foot five."

"So she's not..." I chose my next words carefully. "She's not necessarily a big gal."

"You mean," Kono clarifies, "Even as an officer, she doesn't look all that threatening."

"Right. So even if she caught some junkie... or some asshole jacking in the yard... they may have just run for it rather than trying to stab her through the eye."

"So you think it was a calculated attack," Chin fills in. "And maybe she was a target."

"Not her, specifically," I say, "But maybe whichever officer answered a phone call about an elderly woman who needed to be 'checked on' when she was absolutely fine, and completely within her mental capacities?"

"So maybe the phone call to check on dear old mom was, in fact, setting an ambush for law enforcement," Kono exclaims. "I'll have HPD check their dispatch log and see if they have a return phone number or a location." She practically sprints back to her office, cell phone to her ear.

"Good idea," I say, realizing that I am still shivering, but I'm hot as a furnace. A bead of sweat dribbles down the side of my face, and I smudge my forehead with the back of my shirtsleeve. My underarms and the space between my shoulder blades are dampening with sweat. How about... not now, please?

"Hey, Danny," Chin begins.

"I know!" I bark. "I _know,"_ I add, with a sigh. I turn and walk out of the office and go back into the bathroom, where I had spent most of my morning already. I march into a stall without latching it and bend over the toilet to vomit again.

There isn't even anything left inside of me. Just acidic stomach bile that burns like hell.

My head pounds and I'm in so much pain that I slump against the wall and press my face into the cold tile. This is my life now, apparently.

I mutter some choice phrases that I can't use at home and kick the side of the stall, causing the stall door to swing open.

Then the calvary bursts in, guns blazing, smoke coming out of his ears and a perplexed expression.

"Danno," he says, lowering himself to eye level.

"Get out."

"Can I..."

"Yeah. Sure. You can get me some paper towels. _Then_ get out."

Steve grabs a wad of paper towels and thrusts them at me. I take them but don't do anything at first.

He sits on the bathroom floor across from me.

"Didn't I politely say to get the hell out?" I ask with a growl.

He thinks about it carefully. "I seem to recall something along those lines."

I make a sweeping gesture towards the door.

"Not on your life," he says, and then sobers at the context. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't be overly sensitive. I hate that."

"You gonna make it till August?" he asks. "We have a _month._ You can't not keep food down for a _month."_

"I'll make it work," I say, feeling another stomach cramp. I bend back over the toilet and wait, but nothing happens. Not even a burp. "I seem to keep things down better in the afternoons," I say, "So I'll just skip breakfa..." my mouth is suddenly so full of bile that I nearly choke. I vomit with fresh energy as if I hadn't already done it all morning. With a heave, I let out a loud groan, unable to stop myself from doing so. A groan laced with pain, despair, and anger.

Steve hesitates before kneeling beside me and putting a tentative hand on my upper back. "It's okay," he says, quietly.

"No, it's NOT," I cough, "It's not okay!" I cough several more times in succession.

He squeezes my shoulder. "I'm going to help you be okay," he whispered, more to himself than to me. " _This isn't going to happen again,"_ he says, definitely a thought not meant to be spoken aloud. I know he's thinking about his Aunt Deb.

...

The next few weeks rotate by in a dizzying routine of feeling sick, vomiting on a daily basis (some times worse than others), trying to work, and trying to act normal. It doesn't necessarily go well.

Grace senses something is up and is more sensitive to moods than usual. Rachel texts me almost nonstop. Steve is being the mother bear and I really, really don't need a mother bear. I actually had to make a phone call to the real mother bear, but I ended up telling her I was having a procedure for a benign growth and it was fairly routine.

Of course she offers to fly up and stay with me and I tell her under no circumstances is that necessary because she'd be here and gone within a day and it would waste a vacation day or two. I tell her to save the frequent flyer miles for coming up and staying a longer period of time, preferably next _year._

Steve stands within earshot when I make that call. And then he rips me a new one for lying to my mother.

I go to work every day, tightening my belt and trying to solve crimes with the best of them. We have some minor cases, nothing high profile. A murdered construction worker, killed by his supervisor who then hopped to Maui. We had a sick young man who kept ordering prostitutes online and then killing them, until one woman finally had enough of his attitude one night and killed him herself. A honeymoon suite at the Rainbow Tower drenched in blood... two lovers who thought it would be a good idea to try out a new kink that involved knives and blindfolds. The bride had minor injuries, the groom survived after waking up from a three day coma. We thought we were dealing with attempted murder until he regained consciousness and could corroborate her story.

Kamekona calls us and says he has a life and death emergency. The whole calvary shows up, sirens blazing and lights twirling, but we find that he had a stereo stolen from his shrimp truck while he was serving customers. Not exactly life and death.

Before I know it, this time I _am_ filling out the proper paperwork for medical leave and turning it into human resources. And I'm making arrangements to miss work for fourteen days.

My stomach is shaped funny, as if I'm heavily bloated, and the only thing to keep it looking sort of normal is by standing really straight and trying to suck my stomach in. As long as I'm wearing a shirt that's a size too big, it doesn't hug where the tumor is protruding, so it doesn't gross anyone out.

The problem with that, of course, is that I've lost so much weight in the past few weeks that every clothing items hangs on me like you would hang a coat on a fence post and call it a scarecrow. I had to punch new holes in my belt, buy a new pair of work pants...

I was walking down my hallway last night after using the restroom. I stopped at my bedroom door and looked back, and my boxers were lying in the middle of the hallway. They had literally fallen right off of me and I had stepped out of them without noticing.

I retrieved them and laughed way too hard about it. The nervous laughter that I bark out whenever my life is in danger. A machine gun-giggle, used when standing for an hour next to a bomb while it's being dismantled, or trapped under a building with my partner. Having clothes fall off of me is not as life-threatening, or even life-threatening at all, but... just how much do they expect me to starve before they take this thing out of me?

...

"Hey, Monkey," I say, tugging my daughter down to the couch. "I wanna discuss something with you." I put my phone away, the last text message from Rachel saying _thank you for letting me know. Please call me after and let me know how she's doing._

Grace sits on the edge and looks as if she's at the principal's office. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing like that. In fact, I'm kind of in trouble, but if I tell you what's going on it'll make me feel a lot better."

"They're not sending you back to South America, are you?"

"No, no, not like that. It's not work related."

She breathes a sigh of relief.

"See... sweetie... I, uh," I take a deep breath. "I've been kinda sick lately..."

"I've noticed you throw up all the time," she says, with a shy tilt of her head. "It's probably your cholesterol. Or gluten."

"Not quite." I take another deep breath, but this one wobbles. "I have a... uh, what they call a _mass."_

She knows the term, and her shoulders decline, by only a hair's breadth. "You mean like a tumor?"

"That's another word for it, yes."

"Do you have cancer?" she asks, her chin trembling.

"No, no, as far as we no, nothing like that," I say.

 _Yes, yes I do, I can feel it,_ my mind says. _It's eating you alive!_

"But that's why they gotta take me in for a really minor surgery and just get the mass out and take a look at it."

"Minor?" she asks, her eyes as big as saucers, her cheeks betraying her anxiety with a new shade of pink.

"Yeah, exactly, sweetie, they don't even have to cut me open," I try to explain. "Instead they make teeny tiny little holes, like paper cuts, and then inflate my stomach sort of like a balloon, and then they can pull the mass out in pieces through the holes. That way it only takes a few hours and I'll be home before you even get back from school at your mom's. And then you can call me and we'll talk about it."

"Can't I come with you?" Gracie asks, the tears beginning to gather.

"It's just a routine thing, Grace. Nothing worth missing school over."

"You expect me to concentrate and get good grades in school while you're under the knife?" Grace bellows in a very teenagerish, explosive sort of temper. Suddenly I feel as if I have a son named Grace instead of a daughter.

I try not to chuckle. "Where did you hear that phrase?!"

"I watch TV!"

"Did you learn that from the cheerleading movie?"

"I watch Grey's Anatomy," Grace sighs. "Why do you always ask what I've been watching whenever we talk?"

I blink. "Curiosity, I guess."

"You're trying to figure out if I learned a new phrase from mom or the TV. It's not fair. I'm not a suspect to interrogation! I mean, to be interrogated!"

I nod quickly, hoping to keep her from spiraling out of control. She's upset. She's lashing out about something unrelated. I get that. I do it to Steve every other day. Maybe she gets it from me...

"You're right, of course. I'm just astonished how much you learn and you say things I've never heard before and I'm interested in it, okay?"

"Whatever," Grace looks away, blinking fast.

"Baby..."

"Don't BABY me!" Grace stands up from the couch. "I'm sick of being babied! You know why?"

"Enlighten me," I say, with a _be my guest_ wave.

"Half the time, I'm babied and tip-toed around and treated like a kid. Fine. Whatever. I can handle it. But then the other half of the time it seems like you're getting shot at every other day or I'm getting kidnapped or Uncle Steve is dying or Uncle Chin is held hostage and there's bomb threats and Mommy is taking me out of school early... I'm not babied _then._ I'm expected to be mature for my age and do everything you say and handle whatever happens because surviving is important and..." her voice trails off, and she is legitimately weeping. Not a scared cry, or a child's selfish cry, but a deep hurt form the soul sort of cry. "So don't baby me any more! Either I'm your baby or I'm your daughter hearing about your grown-up problem. You can't have me both ways."

Then she's sobbing so hard that her shoulders tremble, and she sits back on the couch. I sit behind her and scoop her up into my arms, holding her just as if she _were_ a baby.

"I feel like you'll always be my baby, but that's just cuz I'll always be your daddy," I whisper. "But you're right. We can't make you be both."

She's crying so hard that she gags.

"You're going to be okay," I say soothingly, running my hand through her hair.

"But what if you're not okay?" she says between sobs. "What if you die?"

"I'm not going... to die..." I say, and I shake my head to try and keep myself from crying louder and longer than her. I press my lips to the top of her head, three quick kisses, and then pull her in even tighter. I tuck my chin over her hair and take a deep breath. Her heartbeat against my chest sounds like a bird... small and fluttering.

I just have to let her cry it out.

...

After my weekend, Grace goes back on Sunday. She embraces me, hard, before she goes, but then she can hardly look at me as she jumps into her mom's car. Rachel holds up a finger, and Grace nods, and then Rachel steps out of the car.

"Hey," she says, peeking at me from under those beautiful dark eyelashes. "Can I... give you a hug for good luck?"

"Sure thing," I say, opening my arms. She steps gratefully into them and heaves a big sigh into my neck.

"You'll be okay," she says, pulling back. She sniffs ungracefully and I nod.

"Thanks, Rachel. For everything."

"Yeah. Are you sure I can't... you know... be there for you?"

"No, no, it's fine."

"Oh, but, I did bring this for you," Rachel dashes back to the trunk and begins to rummage around. Charlie is smiling and waving at me from his carseat. I stick my hand through the window and tousle his hair, which makes him giggle loudly. "Danno, see?" he holds up a toy. "This is my deeeno so..."

"It's a what now?" I ask, looking at the animal-thing made out of popsicle sticks and super glue. "It's a very impressive deeno what?"

"He means dinosaur," Grace says, devoid of emotion. She leans her head against the glass of the window, looking out the other side of the car.

"It's really good, Charlie, best dinosaur ever." I say. I jostle it in his hands so that it looks like its stomping towards his face, making a gentle little _rawwwr_ sound until he giggles.

Then I walk around the car and tap on her window. She rolls it down, keeping her eyes lowered. "Hey," I say softly. "Everything is going to be all right. I love you. I love you so much. C'mere." I bend down and kiss her on top of the head, embracing her as much as I can. "It's going to be fine."

"Okay," Grace says. "I love you too."

"I know you do," I say, with one last wink. "My princess." I do a bow I've done so often before, but only when she was younger. I don't know why I stopped in the first place.

She tries so hard to smile, but her mouth merely twitches. Good enough.

I walk back around to the driver's side, where Rachel is waiting with a brown grocery bag. "I packed these for you," she says, in a wistful, hesitant voice. "I know it's probably more than you want. But. There's canned soup you can easily heat up, tea, crackers in case your stomach is ill, gatorade. A few pre-packaged dinners you can put in the freezer."

"Rachel," I say with some surprise, "That's... exceptionally thoughtful of you. Thank you. I didn't... I didn't even think about what I'd do afterwards for groceries. I mean it." She hands me the bag, and I slide it over to one arm so that I can give her a partial hug and a brief kiss. "Thank you." I glance in the bag. "Cookies, too, huh?"

"You need some fattening up," Rachel whispers. "You look so... thin. Daniel. Frighteningly thin."

"So I've been told."

"You're scaring me," she says, too quiet for the kids.

"I scare myself," I reply, shrugging uncomfortably.

She shakes herself out of the cloud of worry threatening to descend. "Remember, call us. Good luck."

"Thank you. I love you, kiddos! Be good for your mom, okay?"

"Okay, Danno!"

"Buh-bye, Danno!"

I stand on the sidewalk holding my bag of groceries long after they've driven down the road, around the corner, and out of sight.

...

"Remember that guy that attacked Officer Ailani?" Steve asks as we're driving back from the crime scene of a _get the insurance money by faking a fire and suicide_ deal.

"The big one. Stocking cap."

"That's the one."

"Yeah. Obviously."

Steve doesn't say anything, as if he has completely forgotten he's the one who started the conversation.

"Earth to McGarret?" I ask.

"Sorry," he says, squinting through the windshield. It's beginning to rain through sun-laden clouds, rays of light piercing layers of light gray. We pass by the fields with the large windmills, rotating at unhurried speeds, back south towards Honolulu.

"I think he's one of those people that tries to trap cops and hurt them," he says.

"I think you're kind of stating the obvious?" I say with a confused look. "Isn't that precisely what we suspect he did?"

"What I mean is, one of those people that make it a mission," Steve says. "It's not an unusual pattern, exactly, though the occurrences where someone follows through is rare."

"So not a conspiracy."

"No, no, I'll leave the conspiracies to Jerry. He already thinks its a hit man working for the cartels with a list a mile long of targets."

"But you don't think so?" I press.

"No. I'm sensing a... loner. Someone with a personal vendetta."

"So who do you think is next?"

"To be honest?" Steve lets out a nervous chuckle. "I thought _we_ were. The insurance fire thing with a possible body inside being called in by a couple of kids on bicycles sounded like something made up. I was prepared for it to be a trap."

"And you didn't feel like you needed to let me in on this?" I snap. "You didn't think it important to tell you _partner_ you thought we were heading into a trap?"

"I thought I was being paranoid. I didn't want to worry you."

"Nope, NUH UH," I hold up a finger. "You, sir, are NOT allowed to play those shitty pity games with me. You tell me _anything and everything_ you need to, as your PARTNER, so that I know what I am getting myself into! Don't shut me out just because you think I have a worrisome life! It's not fair to me and to be honest it's not even all that fair to yourself. If we walked into a trap and you're caught in the crossfire and I'm tooling around like an idiot in the back looking for clues or something and you're in trouble and you can't get word out... don't you think if I was as _prepared_ as you for a trap I'd be a little more on top of things?"

"All right, all right, all right! I don't want to argue-I don't want to argue! Okay? Point taken!"

"Good! So how many times do you think we'll have this conversation before you get it through your thick skull? You don't hold information back from your partner, ever."

"But, just... I mean... it _did_ only turn out to be an insurance things."

"So? What if we walked in there and had fifteen people with AKs pointed at us? Wouldn't I have a RIGHT to be prepared for that?"

"I SAID point taken!" Steve says. "I _agree!"_

"Don't agree with me just because you're playing the pity game again."

"No, I'm agreeing because I agree, and I just want this conversation to be over."

"Okay, then, fine, consider it over, pull over... hey! PULL OVER!"

Steve wrenches the steering wheel and the tires scream onto the gravel shoulder.

Peeking out of the tall grass bordering each side of the road, like a savannah at a safari, is the tail end of a squad car bumper.

Steve and I rush out and jump into the grass, wading through it with great difficulty till we're looking at the squad car, nose down in a ditch behind the hill of grass. One officer, a beefy old timer named Kainoa, is precariously leaning out of the driver's side door, a gunshot wound to the collarbone. My gun at ready in one hand, I check around as best as I can before I press two fingers to his neck. There's still a pulse. I pull him gently from the vehicle and wad up his jacket behind his head, then press a rag towel from the trunk against his wound.

The passenger-side door is open, but the seat empty. A few feet away lies a young officer named Raman, three gunshot wounds to his person, two in the lower abdomen and one in the thigh. Steve kneels beside him.

"Raman," he says, "Raman, can you hear me? It's me, Steve McGarret of Five-O."

Raman stirs and his eyes flit open, but his body trembles. "He shot the tire out. We crashed into the grass and then he jumped us when we got out to check the damage."

"Calling it in," I say, getting on the radio and getting a hold of dispatch. I tell them approximately where we are at and who's been hurt. Luckily the group up at the smaller house in the hills, the one recently burnt down for money, was still crawling with badges. At least a few should be able to jump ship early and help us down here.

Raman's body suddenly seizes, his back arching, legs spasming and eyes rolling back into his head. Steve turns him over onto his side, and suddenly Raman is vomiting everywhere, but then his body stops moving and his weight relaxes slowly in each limb.

"Is he dead?" I ask, my voice trying to crack.

"I don't know, it's kind of like that same thing that happened to you," Steve says in a clipped tone. "He blood pressure is probably dangerously low." He looks up at me with a hardened expression of self-doubt. "M-my hands are shaking, I can't feel a pulse."

I hesitate leaving Officer Kainoa, but I dash over to Raman quickly and feel for a pulse. "There's still one there," I say. "Just get that tourniquet really tight."

Steve is already in the process of making one, and gives me a look like, _You remember I was in the navy, right?_

Raman wakes up less than a minute later. "Did I pass out?" He asks confusedly.

"Sort of," Steve says. "I think you had a vasovagal response. Can you tell us more about the assailant?"

I try to listen carefully to Raman's descriptions of a tall, stocking-faced man while checking on the ambulance ETA with dispatch, while simultaneously holding pressure on Kainoa's wound.

"I don't know, that's all the info I can remember," Raman says. "I really thought we just blew the tire. I didn't think it was shot out, but it was. It was a trap."

"You okay?" I ask Steve.

Steve shakes his head slightly. "Brought back some memories."

"What, the seizure?"

Steve shakes his head again, as if trying to clear it of a clinging fog. "Yeah."

"But you're okay."

"I don't want to... deal with that." Steve pulls a water bottle from the inner pocket of the passenger door and opens it up, helping Raman drink some.

Kainoa has woken up too, eyelashes fluttering and whispering a brief greeting to Steve and I. "Welcome back," I say quietly. "Help is on the way. Just hang on."

"You're looking horrible." Kainoa says in his loud, cheerful voice he's known for.

"You don't look so great yourself," I retort.

We can hear the wailing of the sirens as the ambulance and back up approaches. A cop-related shooting, especially ambushes, are always pounced on by the media. Hopefully there is no one tailing them.

"You were saying?" I say to McGarret.

"Nothing," he shrugs.

"You said you didn't want to deal with what?" I push.

"I don't ever want to see you like that again," Steve says. "I can't do it." We hear the ambulance screech on the street outside the wild grasses, and the extra rev of the engine as they back up over 4ft+grass to get as close to the ditch as possible. More cars stop on the shoulder outside.

"You won't. This'll all be over tomorrow," I say, "We'll be done with this and can move on."

"Tuesday the 11th at 8 am," Steve recites my surgery appointment schedule like its his own. "I'll be there."

 _Please be there,_ I think. "Naw, naw," I say, "You don't have to..."

"Are you even serious right now?" Steve asks in disbelief.

"I don't know, maybe." I think about it for a second. "Maybe not."

The grasses part and we're finally relieved by the EMTs. The smell of blood is tangy in the air, and my head begins to pound like there's drums beating inside my temples, drums that smell like vomit, oil, and smoke. Steve starts to give the 411 to the officers, and I excuse myself to go back to my car.

I bend down by the back bumper and put my head between my knees. I feel so woozy and faint but I am not... _not..._ going to have one of those THINGSH again... I literally refuse.

Someone is kneeling in front of me.

"Detective Williams, are you all right?" Duke asks.

I shake my head confusedly. "Just sort of faint." My heart is pounding so hard I feel like its growing with every beat, crowding out my lungs and making them unable to expand properly. My stomach churns and my body is suddenly drenched with sweat.

"Don't move," Duke says. "I'll get one of the paramedics."

"I'm having a panic attack. I think," I say. "I don't know what it is. Don't bother them, please. They have gunshot victims to worry about."

"What can I do to help?" Duke says quickly. "I know, I'll get you some water." He stands up and walks around the side of the ambulance parked in the grass, and I hear him call for Steve. I hear a car door and a rummaging sound, and he comes back with a water bottle.

He thrusts the bottle into my hand, and then stands aside for another person to kneel in front of me.

"Hey buddy," Steve says in the voice he uses for victims. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on right now."

I shake my head and drink some water. "I f-f-feel nauseous," I say hesitantly, my hand holding the water bottle trembling. "And all the blood is rushing away from my head... you know..."

"Sure," Steve says. "You should let us grab one of the paramedics. Just to check you out."

"No, no, this'll pass, I'm sure of it, just don't... don't let them take me away in an ambulance if I pass out. Just throw some water on me." I'm breathing too rapidly. In and out, in and out, in out, in out, inout inout inoutinout Inout,inoutintouintoutntoutntiut...

"Danny," Steve says in his commanding voice, "It's okay. Breathe. Just breathe with me. In, and out. Slowly." He braces me against the bumper of the car with one hand, and uses the other to lightly press against my chest. "There's plenty of space in those lungs of yours, okay? In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow down. There's plenty of air out here too, you're not going to run out. See? Good. Keep it slow. In, and out. In, and out."

Duke shifts from side to side. "Are you sure I shouldn't grab the EMTs? What's wrong with him?"

"It's okay, thank you, Duke, for stopping," Steve says. "He's just been really sick lately so this is probably just residual effects."

"I think I have cancer," I manage to get out.

"Oh," Duke says, in a small voice of shock and hurt. "I am very sorry to hear that..."

"You _don't_ have cancer," Steve says firmly.

"I feel it," I press my hand against my heart, feeling the rhythm of my pumping lungs returning to a normal pace. "It's eating me alive. I can't function. I can't eat. I can't do my job. Somethings wrong and it's taking me apart from the inside. _I can feel it._ "

Steve's eyes are pained but he keeps his mouth a hard line of disbelief. "We'll wait and see what the doctor says tomorrow."

I don't say anything. I shake my head and look away.

Steve slowly lets go of my shoulder and I don't topple down. "If you can stand," he says, "Let's get you in the car and take you home. I'll drive you to your appointment tomorrow, end of story. Okay?"

"Okay, okay," I give in, breathing a huge sigh of relief that I didn't know I would need to release. I stand, with a little bit of a wobble. The blood isn't exactly rushing back to my head where it needs to be, but I don't feel as if my head is being completely drained of it, either. But once I sit down in the car and look in the side mirror, I see a face so gray and haggard that I barely recognize myself. I have cheekbones that could cut glass right now. My hair looks dull and unhealthy. There are deep, dark circles beneath my eyes.

Steve stands outside for a moment, talking in a low voice with Duke.

I astonish myself by reclining the seat back an inch or two and falling into a sudden deep sleep, as if I've never slept before and this was my first real nap. A dreamless sleep where no imagery, memory, music, or thought could crowd out the fact that there's a monster inside of me and I can feel it taking away everything I have.

...

* * *

Funny story to lighten the mood a bit.

My hair is regrowing from losing it to chemotherapy...

Right now... it's weird, sort of short on the sides and long and wild on top. The cons of trying to grow it out and not cut it. I just realized this yesterday after taking a shower and I was trying to smooth back this mane of mine using a flat-palmed, smoothing backwards gesture and then I realized... I was literally pulling a Danno. How does Scott Caan handle having hair like this?! It's RIDICULOUS!


	8. Moehewa

PSA: Very raw emotions.

PSA 2: I sometimes fall asleep while writing, and I keep writing. I don't have a beta, I DO proofread, but I also know I got a nice little power nap somewhere towards the end of the chapter. Apologies in advance.

* * *

...

Moehewa

 _Nightmare_

...

When I'm home and siting on the couch the night before surgery, I finally have a breakdown. The intimate kind between me, myself, and I, and nothing that Steve or anyone else on this earth would ever know about or understand.

For an hour straight, I'm pleading with God. I don't necessarily believe in God or anything, Steve's a spiritual one if at all, but there's no other way to really describe it. I'm looking up at the ceiling, and I'm _begging, begging, begging_ for good news.

"I can't do this," I gasp several times, nearly having another panic attack like that afternoon behind the car. "I can't have cancer. I can't. I'll do anything. Please. Please. Please."

When I've punched the ground a few times, screamed myself hoarse, and felt the anger and self-pity and fear completely deflate into a hollow, somber emptiness, I put myself to bed on the couch, with a glass of water on the coffee table by my head. I can't eat anything after midnight... like a Gremlin... so I set an alarm for eleven-fifty PM.

When the alarm goes off, I'm groggy and angry. I pick up the glass of water and chug it quickly. At eleven fifty-four, I fall asleep again.

At 5:15 AM, Steve is knocking on my door. I open it up and offer him coffee.

"Already had some, but thank you," he says, picking up my car keys from the coffee table and noticing the blanket and pillow on the couch. "You ready?"

"Ready," I say gruffly with the grace of an early-morning zombie.

I don't bother changing out of my black sweat pants or white t-shirt, I just grab a dark blue zip-hoodie, my cell phone and wallet, and follow him silently out of the house and to my car.

Checking in time is at 6 AM at the hospital. I sign my life away in paperwork. I'm shuffled from desk to desk until it's time to return to the waiting room, where Steve is waiting.

"Oh," I say with some surprise, to a room full of people. "Hey guys."

"You don't think we'd just let you go have some _surgery_ without a good luck hug, do you?" Kono asks, standing from a chair and giving me a huge hug. "And Adam says; _me ka pule, e ola._ It means, in prayer, get well."

"Tell him thank you," I reply, giving her a rueful smile. Chin politely waits his turn, and then give me a big hug right after her.

"Good luck, brother," he says. "You'll be fine. We'll be here waiting for you." Abby gives me a little hug and then takes Chin's hand. "I know a lot of people needing to get stuff like this done," she says, with a little sad smile, "It's more common than you would think. You'll be just fine."

"Thanks, Abby," I say.

Max gives me that pleasant little smile of his, keeping his hands folded and instead giving me a little nod of respect. "I wish you all the health in the world, Detective Williams," he says, "When I heard of your potential condition I admit I did some research, and the numbers are entirely in your favor. I know my reciting the odds to you are not entirely the same as, say, a bouquet of flowers, but I mean them with the same good intention, that you may have some peace of mind."

"That deserves a hug," I say, uncharacteristically forcing Max to join in a physical display of affection. "You are one of a kind, Max."

"How long you gonna be stuck in here, anyhow?" Lou asks, nearly bending down at the waist just to shake my hand and pull me into a sort of one armed man hug. "These tiny little chairs in here give me claustrophobia!"

"I don't think they were made for men of your... stature," I say. "It's supposed to take three hours, that's it."

"I, uh, was given a shrimp breakfast tray from Kamekona 'on the house' for you, with strict instructions to bring it to you this morning," says Lou, "But I tried to explain to him how they make you fast right before a surgery and he says that _doctor's don't know squat and you gonna need your strength before goin' unda the knife_."

Again, what is it with the phrase _under the knife?_ I really don't like it. But I'm laughing anyway. "Kamekona is a... special individual," I say, chuckling. "Where's this shrimp tray right now?"

"Uh, I told him to leave it at home," Steve says, sort of grinning, but its mostly for show. "I had my doubts that you'd want to smell anything... fishy... here."

"Good call," I reply. "But tell Kamekona thank you."

"Jerry sends his best as well," Chin says. "He, uh, couldn't come this early..."

"Afraid of radioactive spiders?" I joke.

"More like he already agreed to consulting HPD at 7 this morning on using tracking devices on officers in rural areas to lure out our Masked-Man," Chin shrugs. "But if he hadn't, I'm sure spiders would be on the list."

For a moment there's an awkward silence. What are we _supposed_ to say?

"Nervous?" Kono asks.

"Naw," I say, with my typical off-the-cuff charm that's long been missing. "Maybe if it was a super invasive surgery... but it's not. So. Not really. It's nice that you're all here anyway."

"We're ohana," Kono smiles. "Where'd you expect us to be?"

The nurse comes in, name tag reading Beverly. "We are ready for you, Mr. Williams," she says. Her voice is low and stagnant, like she's reading a teleprompter. "You can follow me."

"Well, here goes nothing," I say. Steve starts to follow me and the nurse out. "I think this is where you have to sit and stay, boy," I say jokingly, like I'm talking to a dog.

"You can bring one person back for a little while," says Nurse Beverly.

My stomach is starting to turn over a little, and I can feel my adrenaline pumping a little fast. "Well, sure, okay, why not," I say, shrugging like it's no big deal. I salute the rest of the team. "Don't get too bored, play with some puzzles or somethin'."

The nurse leads us out of the waiting room, down a hallway where things still look decently presentable. Then she pushes through double doors, and the hospital suddenly looks like a place where people _work,_ where people are cut open, where people are told they are going to live and where people are told they're going to die. There's instruments and machinery on wheels pushed into the hallway, wherever there's room, and there's an open central location, where a circular console desk is in the middle of the room with nurses and doctors running to and fro, and different prep rooms with glass sliding doors in each wall. Then there's a second pair of double doors where people are finally wheeled out into operating rooms.

"You can wait here," said the nurse, pointing to a pair of old chairs shoved against the wall. "And you come in here. We'll bring him in when you're ready."

"Yeah, okay," Steve plants himself in the chair a little too eagerly. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together in a prayerful gesture, hiding his mouth behind them.

"You need to just, uh, take a chill pill," I say to him, walking by him into my room.

The nurse slides the curtain, blocking his glare. She gives me instructions about how to put my personal belongings in a bag, how to remove my shoes, how to put on a hospital gown. I think its ridiculous but I nod, and nod, and nod. Then she leaves me alone.

There's nothing but me and the ticking clock, ticking down the seconds till eight.

After getting undressed and donning the breezy hospital gown I get myself into the bed and feel weird about putting on a blanket. But it's chilly enough in the room, so I give in. Then I twiddle my thumbs and mess with the paper bracelet around my wrist with my name and birthdate. I try whistling for a moment, but my lips are dry.

"Knock knock," Nurse Beverly comes in and starts rattling off information to me. How long it will take, how I'm not supposed to drink water, blah blah blah. I tune it out for the most part. I'm too hyped up and trying to display an outward show of calm. Then she asks me about my home life. "Uh... divorced father of two?" I offer confusedly.

The nurse gestures with a nod towards the door. "Boyfriend?"

"No!" I bark. "Best friend. Partner. We're police officers."

"This is a safe place to tell me whether or not you feel safe while at home or with your partner," she says.

"Safety is a loose term," I chuckle. "I'm a detective. I'm rarely... safe."

"What I _mean_ is," she clarifies, "Is your partner abusive to you in anyway?"

"Um, daily," I laugh, and then I realize she's completely serious. "What you mean like, _abusive_ abusive? Like beating the shit out of me?"

"There's a variety of ways of being abusive," she says. "Verbal abuse... physical... emotional... controlling..."

"Oh, he's got a few of those," I say. When her eyes widen and she looks suddenly excited about a scandal, I decide to quit laughing about it. "Not like what you think," I say quickly. "I don't need a restraining order, okay? He's my best friend. I'd be dead without him. Next question, please?"

"Your friend can come in here now, if he wants," says Nurse Beverly.

"Fine," I say shortly. "Show him in."

"Hey!" Steve busts in and sits in the chair beside the bed. "Bored yet?"

"What do you think?" I ask.

He settles back too comfortably in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "How's Gracie doing?"

"When I told her, she called me out on treating her like a baby and then expecting her to handle this like an adult."

"Ouch," Steve replies. "And she's with Rachel this week?"

"Yeah," I shrug. "I don't want her to see me all hooked up in a hospital. Again. It freaks her out."

"She's a strong kid."

"But she told me as much."

"Oh," Steve sighs and looks around the room at the cupboards and the posters. He picks some sort of plastic tray off the tiny counter and then accidentally drops it in the sink. It makes a huge clatter and we both jolt.

"Jesus, careful," I hiss at him. "I can't take you anywhere!"

"Oops," Steve giggles and puts the tray back onto the counter.

"They're going to kick you out!"

"I'd like to see them try!"

"It's like taking a pet bull to a china shop. Stop messing with things... what are you doing?"

Steve is opening a cupboard and peering inside.

"Would you STOP?" I'm getting sort of pissed off, but I'm laughing, too. "If they kick you out I'll be all alone in here and bored to death."

Steve pulls a pair of blue medical gloves out of the cupboard and a pair of goggles.

"Actual child Steve McGarret," I narrate as he puts on the goggles and then the gloves.

"Why would they have these in here if they weren't intended to be used?" Steve asks with a shrug. "Do you think this makes me look like a doctor?" He looks like a fly with giant eyes.

"You look like an IDIOT!"

Steve pulls the goggles off his head just as the Nurse and another doctor-nurse-thing-person comes in. Nurse Beverly gives him judgmental eyebrows until he peels of the gloves and tosses them into the garbage by the door.

We chat about typical pre-surgery things. They offer me an anxiety pill.

I almost decline. "I don't have anxiety issues," I say, flippantly.

Steve gives me a withering look. "What about yesterday, Danno?"

"You know," I say. "Maybe just this once, it wouldn't hurt."

"You don't have to take it if you don't want to," says the Nurse. If she raises her eyebrows at Steve any more, they're going to grow up and leave for college.

"No, I'm pretty sure I need it," I say, holding out my hand. If it means I can drink water to take it down, I would take horse pills. "I'd forgotten about yesterday," I whispered at Steve. I don't bother elaborating to the doctors. At this point, it's moot.

I suck down the anxiety pill and they pull an IV out of the fridge. Steve gets uncomfortable, feeling as if he is in the way, but not wishing to excuse himself either.

"Little poke," warns the Nurse before jabbing me in the arm.

"Ouch!" I exclaim. "Not so _little_ this time, _Beverly._ " Steve snorts.

"Okay, we're all set," says the other nurse.

"Good luck man," Steve leans down and gives me a hug, patting me on the back three times. "I'll be on the other side, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, don't get weepy on me now," I say. They detach the bed from the thingy on the wall and start to roll me out.

"Who's _weepy?"_ Steve retorts.

"Don't leave that grumpy old man alone," I say to the nurse. "He needs to be fed twice a day, taken outside for a few games of fetch... don't worry, he's potty trained..."

"Ha, HA," Steve says, and then the double doors start to swing close behind us. Before they're entirely closed, I see him put his hands to his face, as if he's yawning into his palms, rubbing at his temples to thwart a migraine. One of the nurses approaches him with a comforting gesture, and urges him back towards the other waiting room where our ohana waits. Then the doors close.

The lights pass overhead in bright rotation, and I find myself focusing on the minuet details. The ceiling panels in light gray and white, the blue stripe along the wall. One of the wheels on the hospital bed has a squeak.

They roll me into a room, and there seems to be an abnormal amount of people milling around in scrubs. Dr. Muaikai comes to the side of the bed and gives me a warm hello, promising reassurances as all surgeons are supposed to do. Then she fits the oxygen mask over my face. "You'll start to feel a little sleepy," she says, "And then it'll be over and you'll be waking up!"

"Uh huh," I say in a muffled tone. I tilt my chin up and glance behind me as they lower the back of the bed down. Then I'm looking at the lights. Then the door. Then the doctor and nurses as they get ready. They have the gloves and the masks and they look like they're all set, but they're not looking at me.

I see a table of instruments... the kind they use to cut someone open... and feel a moment of panic. "Hey," I say, with a mumble. "Hey! Shouldn't I be...uh... you know... unconscious by now?"

Dr. Muaikai comes over to me and looks down into my eyes, checks the straps of the oxygen mask, and leans back with a puzzled expression. "Yeah, you should," she says. "You don't feel anything?"

"No," I say with a scoff.

She leans down. "Oh." Then she adjusts something in the machine itself. "You feel anything now?" she asks.

I blink and glance from side to side. Nothing, yet, and then... a huge wave of sleepiness suddenly overtakes me from the bone marrow to the tips of my fingers. There's a blossom of wooziness, in the nice sort of way, behind my eyes and rushing through my veins.

"Yeee-yaaah," I drawl slowly. "I feel _that."_

"Good," she replies, and I shut my eyes and try to think about whether or not the

...

"Hi there, Mr. Williams. Welcome back. Can you hear me?"

"What?" I ask, my voice frighteningly thick and my whole face numb. I blink a few times and I'm in a recovery room, small and single-bedded, I'm attached to god-knows what with tubes and hoses or wires or something, and everything is bleeping and beeping and blinking and I'm confused about how fast it was. The clock reads... ten a.m. Two hours?

"Mr. Williams, you're in recovery now," says a different nurse, sitting beside my bed. "Now that you're awake, we need to talk."

"Mmmmmkay," I say. "But I think I'm still out of it."

"The feeling is normal. You're coming out of the anesthesia. You've been awake and talking for a few minutes already. Now you're actually starting to retain memories of the conversation."

"Oh, okay," I say.

"How's your pain level?"

I don't feel anything at all, at least I don't think I do, but its almost as if my brain is functioning on a separate level than the drugs, actually connected to my body and knowing what is really going on past the fog. "Four," I mumble, looking around the room. "I feel like a four."

"Okay," says the nurse. "Here's some water if you'd like to drink."

"Yes, please," I take the paper dixie cup from her and drink it down in three gulps. My brain is so foggy and my mind is free like a hot air balloon and the balloon is like, my whole body, and my bladder hurts like hell, and there's a puffy sort of cloud over everything else. Fuzz, fuzz, fuzz in my bra-ain.

"We were wondering if we could bring in your friend," said the nurse. "Before we talk. Would that be all right?"

I wonder why someone needs to be in here while we talk, but sure. "Suuuuuuuuuure," I say slowly. "Hey, uh, if I pee in here..."

"The catheter has been removed, so, you'd wet the bed," says the nurse. "Can you wait a few more minutes? I don't think you should stand just yet. You need to take it easy for a few minutes."

"Sure I guess I can wait," I say, but I shouldn't wait. I have to pee so f*cking bad that wetting the bed sounds like a good idea at this point.

The nurse opens the door and Steve comes in slowly. His face looks different. Older. Grayer. Sort of sleepless and weird. He pulls a chair up to the foot of the bed and looks at me with eyes full of... something. Not pity. Maybe a little bit of love. And a hell of a lot of something else. Fear?

"You look like shit," I say.

"So do you," Steve smiles, but it's completely fake.

"I know yoooou, McGarret," I say flippantly, with a yawn. "I know you so well."

"Oh yeah?" Steve asks. "And what do you mean by that?"

"No faking," I say.

"Faking what?"

"Faking a smile," I say. "I know you."

"I think you're still high," Steve nearly has a real smile, but only the corner twitches.

"I'm SO high," I reply, with a giggle, but the giggle hurts and it feels like someone just ripped my stomach out with their bare hands. "Ow," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut and turning my face towards the pillow. "Shit."

"Try not to laugh for awhile, okay?" Steve asks urgently. "Take it easy."

The nurse has settled back onto the rolling stool and pulls it up to the side of the bed. "First, the good news," she says, "Dr. Muaikai probably saved your life by making a difficult call today."

"Difficult how?" I ask.

She hesitates before saying carefully, "They've found cancer, Mr. Williams. A lot of it."

Steve is so still that he looks like a statue, he doesn't blink, he doesn't breath, he doesn't throw a chair through a window. The only thing that moves is the quiver of a muscle in his jaw.

"Okay," I say, in a voice that I probably haven't used since I was a child. I gulp, and nod. "Okay. What... I mean... what did it look like in there? How is it now?"

"The tumor is football-sized now and has... tendrils, you could call them... attaching itself to major blood vessels and other parts of your intestines and pressing against other major organs. It's flattening your intestines to paper-thin to make room for itself."

"But you got it out," I say, in a voice that's really no voice at all. I sound as if I have laryngitis. "Right?"

She shakes her head. "We couldn't, I'm afraid. If we broke the tumor up into pieces and pulled it out laparoscopically, then we would spread the cancer by contact. It all needs to come out at once. We're going to schedule for a second surgery, and this time, we're making a singularly long incision across your midsection... We can give you two weeks to recover from today, and then we'll do this again."

I can't think. I've turned into a robot. "What, um, what stage of cancer do I have?"

The nurse hesitates, and looks at Steve. "Stage four," she says.

"You're joking, right?" I ask, and I nearly laugh. But laughter is excruciating so I manage to swallow the nervous chuckle, and the feeling of nausea threatening to creep forth. "How the hell does stage four not show up in all those damn tests I took?"

The nurse looks at me with empathy. "Positioning had a lot to do with it. It wasn't until we could look at it in person that we realized what we were dealing with... Dr. Muaikai knew you were going to need a specialist."

"So they opened me up, looked inside, and closed me back up," I say. I can't feel it, but I know my face is crestfallen, completely heartbroken, devoid of all hope. But I can't feel it at all. How am I supposed to know _how_ to feel? Especially if my face is numb?

She folds her hands. "I know this is a lot to take in. You'll need plenty of support and aid during your recovery and treatment. I am so, so sorry we were not able to get the tumor removed today. Please, let me know what questions you have."

I can't even look at Steve, but all in all, I feel like I'm taking it really well. I mean, I can't feel my face at all, so, there's a bonus. I just really don't want to talk about cancer anymore. I'm already sick of the subject.

"Can I pee _now?"_ I ask.

"Yes, of course," says the nurse understandingly. Steve stands up to excuse himself. "Shall I?" says the nurse, with a questioning gesture.

"I don't care _who_ the hell is in here," I say, accepting her hand and she slowly helps me sit up.

"Do you want me to step out?" Steve asks confusedly.

"Don't leave me," I say, with a tone of finality. "I don't care if you see me pee. We are _so_ past that point." I feel as if I weigh millions of pounds, but my head is a helium balloon. I'm still high and I just want to pee. She helps brace my elbows as I stand shakily to my feet.

"How is your pain level?" she asks again.

"Wonderful," I reply sarcastically, without really meaning to. "I mean... the same. Four. Ish."

Once she is certain I can stand, I take a step towards the bathroom in the corner of the room. Then another, and another, pulling the stand for the IV behind me. I'm waddling like a penguin over to the toilet and I pee with the door open because I'm so out of it that I don't really care about privacy anymore. It seems as if I might as well get used to it anyway.

I hear Steve ask something quietly.

The nurse replies with a whisper, _"He's in shock."_

"That's better," I mumble loudly, waddling back to the bed. I start to sit down and feel a slicing twinge of pain through my midsection. I look down at my stomach for the first time. It looks really bloated. Like I got a beer belly.

"Ow," I say. "That... really hurts."

"Why don't you lay back down," suggests the nurse. "You don't have to leave until your pain medication _really_ kicks in."

"Yeah, yeah okay," I pull my legs back into the bed. Steve reaches over and tugs the blanket back over my feet, and the nurse pulls it up the rest of the way. "Can you, uh, give us a minute?" I ask.

"Certainly," the nurse steps out discreetly.

For a moment, Steve and I just look at each other with a sort of quiet shock.

"Stage four cancer," I say softly. " _What the actual fuck._ "

Steve puts his head down on the end of the bed, and I realize he's weeping. Big time. Like Wo Fat killed his memories all over again sort of weeping. But this time its for me, not for him, and that itself kills me more than words or expressions of sympathy.

"Please don't, don't," I whisper. "I'm sorry..."

"Jesus _Christ_ Danny," Steve looks up again, his face dark and his eyes bloodshot.

"I know, I _know,"_ I say, putting a hand to my forehead. "What am I going to tell my baby? Shit. _Shit."_ I glance up at the ceiling, too overcome for anything except a whispered, _"I thought we had a deal..."_

Steve respectfully doesn't address that.

"Can you tell the team?" I ask hoarsely. "I don't... want... to see their faces. I just can't deal with that right now."

"Yeah, I'll tell them." Steve takes a deep breath. "Do you want me to tell them now?"

I feel my eyelids growing heavy, like I just want to go back to sleep. "If you want."

"Only if you want me to go."

I nod. "It's okay. Come back when you're done. Please."

Steve squeezes my shoulder and then leaves the room, his whole stature decreased by the weight of bearing bad news. I feel sort of awful for making him do it... but... did they expect me to have the whole ohana in my room while I'm only just reeling from the news myself?

Steve tries to shut the door behind him, but it doesn't swing shut automatically. I hear three or four steps on a linoleum floor, and a chorus of voices I knew all too well asking how I am and how it went.

Steve's low voice rises and falls in his "commander" tones, the sort of bossiness that comes with giving the low-down before a dangerous, life-threatening mission. Make everyone aware of the unlikelihood of survival... so that they know what they're getting themselves into...

I hear a female voice give a sharp cry of "NO!" and a choice word from Chin. A thump from someone sitting in their chair too hard.

"You've got to be kidding," says Kono, and I realize the first voice I heard isn't Kono. It's Rachel. I didn't realize Rachel was going to come and wait too. It's surprisingly kind of her, but... I didn't want her to hear it from Steve. I wanted her to hear it from me. And if Rachel knows already, the sooner she is going to want to tell Grace... oh f*ck... I don't want to tell Grace.

I turn into the pillow and react only as a grown man can when he's handed his own death certificate. Muttering _shit_ over and over again, as if its going to do any good.

"Thanks everyone," Steve says in a muffled voice. He sounds as if he is getting hugged by ten people at once. "I need to go back and check on him. I'll be back in a few."

Steve enters the room again, hesitating at the end of the bed for a moment. When its clear I can't seem to stop the onslaught of curses any time soon, he walks to the wheeled stool, and pulls it up as close as possible. He puts an arm over me and simply sits, providing some sort of illusion of a guardian, someone who can protect me and keep me from harm.

"We'll get through this," he says, his tone broad and business-like, as if I'm just another mission to add to his list of ex-navy duties. "We'll fight this. I swear. I'm not letting you go. God as my witness, I will help you through this."

I shudder slightly, and grab the cup from the bedside table, taking a few more gulps.

"I'll help you through treatments," Steve continues, "You can move in while you recover. I don't care. You can't be _that_ annoying to live with. Do you hear me? We'll get through this together, I swear."

There it was; the shrapnel's damage, slicing murderously through him and wreaking havoc in his own life. The exact opposite of what I wanted.

"Please," says a voice at the door. It's Rachel. "Can I come in?"

I need help sitting up, and Steve is more than happy to oblige. "Yeah, come on," I wave her in. "It's okay, Rach."

She enters, her face stricken and her eyes flooding, and comes up to the bed. I pat the blanket, and she gingerly sits down beside me, and leans down to kiss my forehead. I respond by taking her hand and winding my fingers through hers. "I didn't know you were coming today," I say. "The kids..."

"They're okay," Rachel says. "Grace is at school. Charlie's with Stan today. I wanted to be here for you, if you needed me."

"What are we going to tell her?" I ask hoarsely. " _How_ are we going to tell her?"

"Well," Rachel hesitates, "We'll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, you just need to focus on feeling better."

"Feeling better," I repeat. "I don't even know what that means."

She smooths back hair from my forehead. "You're still not fully awake yet, I think. We'll talk more about it later."

"I'm a hell of a lot more awake than I was five minutes ago."

The nurse steps back inside, and Steve stands to let her have her stool back.

"Thank-you," she says, sitting down. "Mr. Williams. How is your pain level?"

I hesitate, trying to not think about cancer long enough to actually ascertain how I feel. I don't know when the meds kicked in, but they most certainly did sometime after Rachel came in. I slowly sit up, pushing myself up on my elbows without using the remote to lift the back of the bed. "Uhhhhh," I think out loud. "Virtually non-existent. Maybe 1."

"Okay, good," she smiles softly. "We'll discharge you, then. But first we have a lot to talk about. Who will be taking care of you for your two weeks of recovery?"

"Me," Steve says loudly, before Rachel even has a chance to think about answering. _Haha,_ I think to myself, still quite potentially higher, and therefore crueler, than necessary. _You divorced me, remember?_

"Okay," says the nurse. "Then a lot of this will be for you." She opens a folder full of papers. Instructions for literally everything. Food, drink. Whether or not I can go swimming. Pain prescriptions. Instructions for preparing for the _second_ surgery... the actual removal.

I realize I'm reliving my consultation from last week. I thought we would be done with this. I thought it would be _over._ But it's deja vu.

I woke up to bad news, a second consultation, and a new caregiver that looks an awful lot like a navy seal. God damnit. His bedside manner is probably awful. Maybe I could exchange him for his sister. Mary's a nice girl, and definitely more attractive. She can play nurse and Steve can go... take a vacation, or something. Why can't he go find Katherine in the Middle East and settle down away from me and have a dozen little babies with control issues and worried wrinkles right in the middle of their foreheads?

I notice I'm staring at that wrinkle right now. Steve is staring back at me with a confused expression.

"Uh... sound okay, Danno?" he says.

"What?" I ask.

"She just went over your med regime," he says slowly.

"Would you like me to go over it again?" she asks gently.

"Nope," I shrug, pointing at Steve's forehead. "As long as that forehead looks like that, you have nothing to worry about."

"Huh?" Steve asks.

"Nevermind," I mutter. "If it's written down in that folder, it'll get done."

"Okay, well then," the nurse stands and hands the folder to Steve. "Mr. Williams... please accept my deepest apologies that we did not have good news for you today. I know that there is... nothing worse than hearing what I've told you today. But you're not alone. And if you ever have any questions, my card is in there, and we have advice-nurse on 24/7. We were caught off guard today in surgery but now we know how to help you fight this."

"Mkay, thank you," I say sincerely, but I also wish I didn't have to say anything at all. I'm sick of talking and thinking and stuck between a half-life of feeling sick and the other half-life of knowing I can't do a damn thing about it.

"Why don't we step out," the nurse says, placing my bag of belongings at the foot of my bed. "We'll let you get dressed. Drink some more water. Take your time. There is absolutely no hurry. And there are some crackers there if you are hungry. I'll fetch a wheelchair."

I shake my head. "I don't need a wheelchair for being discharged..."

"It's policy," she says. "We can't be held liable for a person insisting on walking out on his own two feet and then have a fainting spell on the curb. I will fetch the wheelchair, and we are wheeling you to the load zone. Commander McGarret can bring the car around."

Steve needed something to do. He straightens up and practically gains a few muscles just from the eagerness to make himself useful. "I'll be right outside," he says quickly. "As soon as your ready, I'll get the car."

The nurse hands me a clipboard and I sign myself out. Officially discharged.

Then she excuses herself, leaving me and the ex-wife alone, frightened, still not married to each other, and yet somehow till tethered together like a boat in a harbor.

"Would you like some help?" she asks, opening the back and laying out my sweatpants for me.

"No," I say, a little too shortly.

"Okay," she replies in a small voice, deftly arranging my clothes and belongings in neat little piles and throwing the plastic bag away.

"Rachel, I'm sorry," I say. "C'mere, please?"

She's crying again, and I sit against the side of the bed, and she steps into my arms. I hold her for a moment and just let her shed some of the sadness. "Remember," I say, "I don't... I don't have any expectations of you. Just because this has happened doesn't mean you have to re-arrange or change anything. Let's just agree to be there for Grace. All right? Nothing matters except for Grace and Charlie. Not you, not me, not my health, nothing. Okay?"

"Agreed," she gulps, stepping back. She tilts her head and looks at me with a sort of shocked expression. "You're a brave man, Danny Williams."

I mirror her head tilt, and then shake my head, lowering my chin to my chest. "Not today," I whisper, and my voice cracks slightly.

"And that's okay," she says. "I shall... uh... step outside. I'll be right by the chairs at the door. If you need anything, you don't even have to shout. We'll hear you."

"Yeah," I reply quietly. "Okay."

Alone again, I put my sweatpants and T-shirt back on. The shirt is uncomfortably tight over my swollen abdomen. I lift the gauzy sticker at one of the insertion sides on my lower stomach, casually inspecting the incision. It's so tiny. The only reason why they needed it at all was to slip something inside, blow my belly up with gas, and widen the cavern to get a better look. But then it was supposed to succeed from there... to drag out bits and pieces of the tumor, and close me up again. But instead they looked, sighed, and closed me up. I was their biggest disappointment today.

I try to eat a cracker, and it tastes like sawdust to me.

When I'm done changing, I take agonizingly slow steps out the door of the recovery room. Steve, Rachel, Kono, and Chin are waiting for me. I see Lou and Abby making their way down the hall, bowing out early and giving us some... space. They raise their hands in farewell when they see me appear, but they don't turn back. Maybe they thought it'd be easier for me not to deal with facing everyone's emotions at once. And they'd be right.

The nurse rolls up with the wheelchair before I even have a chance to say anything. But walking from the bed to the hall outside was exhausting, and I find myself sitting in it with a huff without a single word of protest.

"We're with you, brother," Chin says, squeezing my shoulder as the nurse relinquishes the control of the wheelchair to Steve, whose sort of butting her out of the way anyway. Because as long as its something you use for transportation to point A to point B, Steve wants control of it. Especially if I'm the passenger.

Suddenly his driving issue made sense to me. It never did before.

It's because I'm the passenger. It's just another one of his brain-melting functions as a safety addict... he wants the control because he thinks he's keeping me safe. In my own car, god damnit.

"I will be saying prayers for you," Kono says, leaning down and giving me a half-hug. Suddenly everyone is religious. Kono is praying, Steve's swearing to God... I tried to make a deal, and it failed... I guess there's some logic to having support and help from church groups during the life moments where bad news rips out your heart and dumps it on the floor. Not that I know how that floor dumping feels. Not at all. Cancer is just another walk in the park.

I don't remember saying anything to Kono or Chin. I don't remember bidding Rachel goodbye, either, as she promises to follow along and stop by with some dinner for Steve and I in a few hours. Is it really barely noon? I went in early, finished early, and then was kicked out by the staff, and now I have to spend the next two weeks with Steve McGarret...

...


	9. Moe

...

Moe

 _Rest_

...

* * *

...

I don't remember getting in the car or how the conversation even started. All I know is that I'm turning into a chatty Kathy. Not that he would even know what that is. My sisters had them when we were kids.

Dolls that spoke way, way too much.

Which is what I'm doing right now.

"So she has this friend," I'm saying, "Named Kim, right? She and Kim are both simultaneously the best of friends but it seems to ME like this Kim might actually be a tiny evil dictator. And Kim treats her like shit half the time. So fifty percent of the time Grace is crying about something Kim said but then she can't shut up about the little demon and worships the ground she walks on."

"Is this a metaphor for us?" he asks, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"What? No, what? What gave you that idea? That's stupid. This is a real person. You know what else? When Grace asks to go to a sleepover and I'm like NO she pretends she's all pissed at me over the phone with Kim there, and then when she comes home she's super relieved 'cuz she didn't want to spend extra time with her anyway."

"Sounds like a problem..."

"You bet your ass its a problem!" I sigh. "My daughter is in the clutches of a tiny evil dictator! And it's - am I talking too much? I'm talking too much, aren't I? I think they gave me extra of whatever. I haven't stopped talking since we left."

"It's okay..."

"No, it's not. It's not okay. I need to stop. I just need to shut up. Mkay? Shutting up now..." I draw my finger across my lips in a zipping motion, and pretend to flick the key off into the horizon. Which, by the way, is glistening.

The morning has descended in full swing, both with loud noises and soft ocean colors. Everything seems distracting, every sight is too sharp and the lines entrench themselves in my head. My eyes are darting right and left to try and pick up every detail, as if everything is in focus for the first time. Did I need glasses before? Maybe the anesthesia suddenly cleared up my senses so that everything is extra loud and extra clear?

And then it's way too silent, and the urge to fill the silence bubbles up and makes all kinds of alarms go off in my brain. Screeching at me to start talking or I'm suddenly going to start thinking instead. And I don't want to think. I can't think. Thinking means dealing with the issue at hand...

He opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it again with a loud clamping sound.

"Go ahead, say it," I bark.

He tries to ignore the fact my volume is still way too high for a small car interior. "I'm scared for you," he says simply. "That's it." But then twists his jaw, almost as if he's picked up the habit of chewing tobacco in the last few hours.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, and?" I push.

"Scared for me too," he says shortly. "I don't want to do this without you."

"You'll get another partner..."

"Don't say that. Don't you ever... ever say that." He grips the steering wheel like he's wringing a neck. "We're not giving up."

"I'm certainly not giving up. Do I seem like I'm giving up? No, I'm not, I just want to be realistic at this point."

"Realism is for pessimists."

"Well, you've never believed me to be an optimist. Why start now?"

"Because you need it now," he says in a dark tone. "We're not... NOT... going to get mired up in the what-if's. Not yet. One problem at a time. Okay? Our first problem is just getting you ready for the next appointment. Two weeks. A little R&R. And plenty of sleep."

I yawn automatically and adjust the pillow they handed me on the way out to cushion the space between my stomach and the seat belt. It crinkles and feels as if its made of paper.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Puffy," I reply with a second yawn. "So puffy. I'm a fat old man now."

"You are a very handsome fat old man."

I groan. "Oh, puh-lease."

I lean my head back and fall into an instant doze, before twitching once with a sort of startled reaction, like falling backwards when you're just trying to sleep. I blink, and we're already at his house, and he's not even in the car. It's off and the front door is standing open. Fastest nap of my life.

He trots out the front door and comes around to the passenger side, opening the door. "Morning!" he says too brightly, holding out a hand. "Come on!"

I grumble and unbuckle myself, accepting his hand just to get the initial lift up so I can my swing my legs out of the door. I feel as if I am filled with helium, and if I try to talk, I'll sound like the damn turtle baby from the Nemo movie. The thought makes me giggle, the machine gun laugh again. Nervous and abrasive. Huh-huh-huh-huhh-h-h-h-h-h-h. Mostly from my head, however. I'm guessing that laughing with my stomach is probably a no-go at this point.

"What's so funny?" he asks, grabbing my discarded hoodie from the car floor.

"Oh," I say. "We forgot my bag at the house. We did discuss that, didn't we? Me staying with you after the surgery?"

"I already have your bags. We _did_ forget it this morning but we stopped and grabbed it while you were napping. I grabbed the goodie bag from Rachel, too. And we stopped at the pharmacy for the rest of your meds."

"We did?"

"Yup."

"Okay," I say slowly. "Wait, then what were we talking about earlier? When you said I could stay with you, to the nurse?"

He makes the face again. The face-face. Sort of frightening and queasy. "I meant... in the future. If you do treatments."

"Like how?"

"Chemotherapy. Radiation. More surgery. Whatever it takes. You can stay with me any time."

"I thought we weren't crossing any bridges."

"Whatever you want, buddy."

We go up to the house and I get situated in the guest bedroom. "Mary's not gona show up in the middle of the night and fall on me, right?" I call.

"No, she knows you're staying with me. Don't worry."

"Who's worried?" I scoff. "I'm just asking." I reach over and punch one of the pillows to try and fluff it up.

Steve peers through the door and holds up a can of chicken noodle soup. "Breakfast?" he asks.

I nearly hurl right there. "Ahhh," I say slowly, "Ah, maybe, maybe not. Yet. Do you have any... crackers?"

He tosses a packet into the bedroom and I miss the catch. But it lands on the bed. "Yessss," I hiss uncharacteristically. "I mean, thank you." I'm just so hungry for something crunchy but too nauseous to imagine eating anything else.

I eat four crackers and then I tip my head back for all of two seconds and then I am sound asleep again.

I wake up and it feels like someone has shoved two iron rods into my stomach long-ways and then slowly turned them side-ways to expand my belly into uncomfortable proportions.

"SHIT!" I bark when I wake up. "Oh... wow. Shit." I try to stand up and barely make it to the dresser, leaning on it haphazardly. I call out the door again. "Have I been sleeping a long time?" I ask gruffly. "Long enough for me to take a pain med?"

Steve shuffles around the other room and comes down the hall. Luckily for this house in particular, everything is hardwood floors and white-paneled and creaky. You couldn't drop a pin without the person downstairs wondering if it was starting to rain. Old and paper-thin.

"Here, got it right here," he says. He hands over the tiny paper bag with the ten-mile-long receipt stapled to the side of it. I open the bag and pull out the tiny orange capsule thing to read the instructions. _Take two with food every four to six hours as needed for pain. Side effects: shallow breath, fainting, seizures, confusion, drowsiness, nausea and dizziness._

I glance at Steve. "You know these things are supposed to help but..."

"What are the side effects?"

"Oh, just a few things," I reply sarcastically, picking up the cracker packet I left half-eaten on the night-table. There's a full glass of water already there that I didn't notice before. Or maybe he just put it there while I was asleep.

I throw a cracker in my mouth, chew and swallow while I sit back in the bed as slowly as I can, and then I take two pills with water. There. I 'took with food'.

Now I'm reading over the instructions again. "How long before this kicks in?" I ask.

"It doesn't say?"

"No." I turn it over and see the receipt, and whistle. "Expensive." I give Steve a squinting glance of disproval. "Please tell me you did not pay for this."

"I used your card," Steve replies, with a half-grin. "Next one is on me. I promise. But I knew you'd be pissed if I had to wait until you were _sleeping_ to help out and pay for something."

I wave him off. "Sure, I'll let you get the 'next one'. Since apparently we're going to have to do this all over again anyway."

Steve sobers. "I am truly... sorry..."

"Stop right there. Please. I'm fine."

"Well, you weren't fine. You should have seen your face. I don't ever want to see your face like that again."

"What was wrong with my face?"

"You may feel like you hide your feelings well most of the time. But you were still pretty high when the nurse decided to tell you. And you couldn't hide as well as you thought you could."

Steve comes into the room and gingerly sits at the edge of the bed, his presence as Mr. Intimidation taking up more room than he believes he occupies.

"Oh, ok," I mumble. "I guess we're having a talk now?"

"I just wanted to tell you. Your face said it all. You're devastated. And it's okay to be devastated. But I'm here for you, okay?"

I gulp and nod slowly. Then I slide my hand over the cracker packet and eat another one.

It makes such a ridiculously obnoxious crunch sound that it makes me snort. It startles Steve, and then he snorts. Suddenly I let out a loud laugh, and gasp.

"Ow," I moan, putting my hands to my plushy, swollen belly. "Oh. God. That feels like hell."

"Maybe don't be so funny," Steve admonishes while trying not to keep laughing.

"I need to lay down before I pass out."

"Okay," Steve says quickly, jumping off the bed to give me leg room. I swing my legs slowly up onto the bed and lay back, my head sinking into the pillow as if it weighs a million pounds. Steve starts talking about something, and when I try to lift my head and respond, it's still too heavy to lift. The room is gently rocking back and forth, not so much from what I can _see_ of it, but more like my equilibrium is on a see-saw. The gray matter in my head is probably sliding back and forth and bumping the sides of my skull.

"What do you think?" Steve asks.

"What do I - what do I think? I think... nothing," I answer. "I got nothing."

"It might be a good idea."

I blink at him. "What are you even TALKING about?"

"The sting," he replies confusedly. "To catch the guy that's targeting cops."

"Just go... stand out in the middle of the lagoon at the Hilton," I suggest. "He'll... come to you. On a paddle-board."

"Did you hear anything I had said?" Steve asks.

"Hear it, yes, understand it, no."

Steve nods his head at the pharmacy bag. "May I?" he asks.

"Yup," I reply. "Yup yup yup."

His cheek twitches ever so slightly as he reads the side-effects of percocet. "Aha," he says knowingly.

"Aha!" I repeat. "Aha, what? What's the AHA?"

"It's a mix of oxycodone and acetaminophen. You keep getting confused halfway through our conversation. I've repeated the same idea about three times. I was starting to think you were messing with me."

"So..." I say slowly. "Do you, uh, wana run through that a fourth time?"

"Why don't we give it a rest till tomorrow?"

"Sure."

We hear the sounds of a car stop outside. Steve glances out the window. "That'll be Rachel," he says. "She wanted to bring over dinner."

"Right, right, right..." I try to sit up, and finally find that I can. I am still dizzy but the pain is far lessened. I actually feel like I can move if I want.

Steve leaves the room, and I hear him greet Rachel at the front door. He makes a sort of startled "Hey there!" sound, and suddenly, there's footsteps pounding up the stairs as fast as they can go. Young feet taking two steps at a time.

And then there's my Grace standing in the doorway, seeing her dad looking like shit, and probably scared out of her mind at the sight of it.

"Hey, Danno," she greets worriedly. "How are you feeling?"

"I thought we were gonna talk on the phone, Grace," I say, holding out my hand to her. "I thought you wouldn't want see your old man looking like a halloween costume."

She smiles at me and takes my hand.

"She insisted," Rachel enters the room, and I suddenly realize what's happening. I'm being ambushed by my women... and the conversation I would like to actively avoid has me cornered in my recovery room. "She wanted to talk to you face to face. Make sure you were okay. I told her it would be better to hear it from you... _in person._ "

I give Rachel a death glare. Metaphor aside. Timing is everything. I'm not ready for this conversation yet. But I can't avoid it now... not with my daughter in the bedroom with me, instead of on the phone.

"Well, Monkey..." I bring Grace down onto the bed with me, and Rachel sits down at the foot. "I... I mean, today... it didn't go very well..." I can't look at her face. I just can't go it.

Rachel sees that I'm struggling.

"We wanted to tell you together," Rachel says carefully.

Grace whips her head towards me, her eyes huge with terror. I pull her into my arms and feel her tiny, girlish body against my disgustingly bloated stomach. I put my chin over her head as I so often do, wishing I could just somehow encompass all her little emotions and absorb all of her fears.

 _This is it,_ I think. _There can be no lower moment for me as a parent._

"I'm sick, baby," I say, choking on the words. "I was wrong. It _is_ cancer. I..." I can't even continue. I try to breath, but I shudder instead. Grace is slack in my arms... a rag doll.

"We're going to be doing everything we can to get him healthy again," Rachel says quickly, putting a perfectly manicured hand on my back and rubbing in comforting gestures. She puts her other hand over Gracie's arm. "He has to have another surgery in two weeks, and then we'll be able to re-evaluate what he needs next. It's going to be a little scary for awhile, but we'll be able to sit down and discuss these things... as a family... and we'll be able to explain everything to you as we go along. It's going to be okay."

"No," Grace says, clearly and angrily. "It's not OKAY, Mom!" her shoulders begin to tremble. I can't hold her any tighter than I am already holding her. Rachel can't be more comforting that she already is.

We've reached the end of our tether, and our daughter is out sailing these waters alone.

"I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper. "I promise you, I..."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Grace hisses. "It's not FAIR."

"I can make this promise," I say firmly. "I am going to do everything in my power to fight this off. I am going to get healthy. I'm going to take meds and get surgeries and jump through all the hoops in this dog and pony show. I'll be the best damn patient they've ever had. I promise you that."

Grace unleashes the torrential sobs I knew were coming.

"Shhhh," I say, smoothing her hair. Rachel is crying, too, and she leans in and kisses the top of Grace's head. "I'm sorry," she mouths to me. "She wanted to."

I give my head a slight shake. She _knew_ the timing was wrong. She knew it.

All I can do is hold Grace while she cries. Not cries of fear, or even sadness. This is anguish like I've never heard it before, and I've dealt with grieving families an immeasurable amount of times. Maybe it's just different because I'm the cause of her devastation?

When I hear a door slam downstairs, I know its because Steven can hear every timber of Gracie's grief. And I know he doesn't WANT to hear it.

Sometimes she breaks long enough to ask a question. Sometimes she settles down into hiccoughs and gulps. I offer her some of my water, and she takes a polite sip. Rachel keeps stroking her hair and repeating her mantras of all will be well and we'll handle this together as a family... and so on and so forth...

But eventually, I need them to go. I'm in a lot of pain and I'm exhausted and I don't want my kid to see me this way. And I've been sitting up, slightly hunched over to cuddle my baby girl. It's excruciating.

"I need to, uh," I say, trying to adjust from sitting up. I suck in a quick breath and squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to groan. "I need to take some... medicine, and, um..."

"We should go," Rachel says slowly. "Grace, sweetheart..."

Grace throws her arms around my neck and squeezes. "I don't want to go!" she snarls, in a very un-Grace-like voice.

"Baby, come on," I gently detach her arms and grip her by the shoulders, forcing her to make eye contact and give me her full attention. "I know this is scary. But one of the best things we can do is just do everything the doctor tells us. For me, that's sleeping and taking pills. For you? It's to just... keep on being you. Study hard, play hard. I'm still here tonight. Right? I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to be sitting in this stupid bed, probably watching stupid movies. Go home with your mom. Get a good night's sleep. Call me in the morning."

"What are you going to tell Charlie?" Grace asks suddenly. "He's not going to understand, you know."

"I don't know that I will, exactly," Rachel says carefully. "I think I will just bring Charlie over when Danny is feeling a bit better. And I'll tell him he's feeling sick and we need to be careful around him. Eventually... Charlie will..." she stops. "I don't..."

"It's fine," I say shortly. "Grace, everything's going to seem weird and different. Okay? I get that, I do. I don't expect you to _not_ feel scared, or angry, or upset. We can handle it. But for Charlie, this will just be... the new normal, I guess. He's too young to understand what it means. That's okay. He's got you around, doesn't he?" I poke her in the collarbone. "He's the luckiest kid on this planet, with a big sister like you."

Grace's eyes are doleful, and her mouth sagging in something worse than your average frown. "I can call you in the morning?"

"Absolutely... hey, do I ever lie to you?"

"Sometimes..."

"No, no, I'm your father, I will omit or exaggerate... but I won't lie to you. That's a promise. From now on, all cards are on the table. I tell you what I'm thinking all the time and you can too. So tomorrow when we talk on the phone I'll be just as grumpy as ever, and you can tell me stories about Kim, and I promise I won't say _anything_ bad about the little vampire."

Grace breaks into a grin.

"There it is! My reason for everything! C'mere!" I give her a massive kiss on top of the head and she makes a _yuck_ sound. "I love you so much, you know that, huh?"

"Love you too," she replies.

Rachel stands and holds out her hand, and Grace takes it, even though she is way too old to be led away by her mom.

"Goodnight, daddy," she says, suddenly remembering to rub away the tear-stains with her free hand. "Talk to you tomorrow."

"Okay, Monkey. Tomorrow."

This feels so wrong. Yes, goodbye, daughter. You probably think I'm going to be dead by morning and here we are, having polite farewells.

Rachel gently pushes Grace out the door, and then turns back to look at me with an expression of pious pity. She waits to speak until she hears Grace's footsteps get to the bottom of the stairs.

"Danny," she starts. "I know you didn't want to tell her at first, but..."

"Rachel," I cut her off, holding up a hand. "I'm in so much pain right now I can barely _think._ This was not the right time you knew- you knew it." I pinch the bridge of my nose to thwart the horrible words wanting to spill out. Instead they knock around in my brain like a migraine. "Just... don't make this more difficult than it already is. I'm begging of you."

"I just... thought she should know right away," Rachel says.

"Right away, yes. A few hours after I get back from the hospital, NO. Tomorrow, maybe. That would have been fine. You jumped the gun on this one, Rachel. The next time we _discuss_ it before hand, okay? Co-parenting. I thought that was going to be our thing. Not an _ambush_ under the cover of homemade casseroles."

"Take your pills, Danny," she says quietly.

"Get _out,"_ I reply brusquely.

And she does.

My whole body is trembling as I lower myself back onto the large, king-sized pillows propped up against the headboard. I check the clock.

Two and a half more hours till the next dose.

...

The worst night of my life is spent in a haze. Sometimes I'm fully awake and feeling fluffy and fat, and sometimes I'm sleeping and dreaming that I'm in far worse pain than I am, and waking up again in a panic. I don't know if Steven ever sleeps. Every single time my alarm goes off for another pain dose, he's knocking on my door, going,

"Uh, Danny? Take your pill!" and then shuffling back to his room.

"I have an alarm set on my phone," I call down the hall. "I'm taking them. It's fine. Get some sleep."

"Noted," he replies.

And then at four thirty a.m., he's back at my door, peering in and creepily illuminated by the light from the hall. "Take your pills, Danny!" he barks.

"Jesus, I KNOW!" I bark back. "My alarm went off! I got it!"

"Okay," he replies, and shuffles back to his room like we didn't already have this conversation three times.

These navy seal guys, I swear... stubbornly regimental.

...

It gets easier in a few days. I'm walking around with a lopsided shuffle and I insist on getting my own shit together.

At one point I'm trapped in the bathroom, literally crying. Not like Grace. More like... toddler Grace, when she just really really wanted that dolphin-trainer Barbie that I, at first, was hesitant in purchasing.

After twenty minutes I come out, gray-faced and exhausted.

"I was looking for you!" Steve exclaims. "Where were you?"

"Giving birth," I reply.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

"Don't 'never mind' me! What's wrong?"

"I literally just took the biggest shit of my life - okay? You happy? Does the TMI help you sleep at night? How DO you sleep at night, hanging from the ceiling with your bat cape?"

Steve is laughing so hard he's almost falling over.

"Get OUT!" I throw something - a shoe - at his head.

"This is MY living room, you can't kick me out of it!"

"Everyone shits, Steven! It's not that funny! You shit, I shit! Get over it!"

"It was the 'giving birth' part that confused me."

"It's not all that confusing. Your head is just made of the ramen noodles you've been force-feeding me."

"Why, do you want shrimp from Kamekono's?"

I make a gagging gesture. "NO!"

By the end of the weekend, Steve and I having come close to committing homicide a few times on each other, and then considering some sort of voodoo ritual in order to bring each other back to life just so we can kill each other again. Although the only thing that keeps me going... I mean, feeling normal... is the fact that Steve doesn't always try to do me favors. He gives me just as much crap as he ever has. And then he lets me completely lose my temper at him and vent as much aggression as I've stored up over the day.

I think he realizes its almost therapeutic.

Steve goes back to work without me the following Monday and I get to go back to my place. It's weird being stuck on this... involuntary vacation. He's working, wearing the badge, doing god-knows-what with guns and car chases and probably walking away from explosions in slow motion.

I'm just walking back and forth from my couch to the bathroom in slow motion.

...

I only have to call Steve in a panic once. I don't even remember half of what happened. All I know is that I'm on the floor in my living room, in so much pain in my back and stomach that I'm groaning and moaning like a bad halloween special effect. Steve was already on his way, so he walks in right when things seem the most horrible.

But he's also getting way too good at handling my mishaps.

He helps me up to the couch, and asks me questions about what I was doing. "I didn't... pass out... if that's what you want to know," I gasp. "I just... laid down. I thought it'd be more... comfortable."

"On the floor? Comfortable HOW?" Steve lifts my feet up unceremoniously and sticks a pillow underneath them so that they are elevated. "When's the last time you had your pain pills?"

"I don't remember... wait... maybe noon. What time is it?"

"It's nearly six. Did you forget the four p.m. dose?"

"I guess... I guess I did. I know I didn't take anything then. How did I even miss that?"

"It happens," Steve hands me a glass of water and my med capsule. "Drink up."

After I take the pill I lean my head back and let out an abrupt "Ugh. Damn this hurts."

Steve sits down on the couch next to and picks up the remote with his right hand, and pats my leg gently with his left hand. "I'm right here for you, man," he says.

Then he turns the channel to a Pearl Harbor special on the history channel.

...

I get frequent visits from Rachel, toting Grace and Charlie. Charlie _is_ too young to understand cancer, but he isn't naive enough to ignore being sick. Not only does he approach me on tip toe, he keeps bringing a toy stethoscope with him on his visits.

"Can I listen?" he asks in that precious voice of his.

"What? Course you can!" I point at my heart and he smashes the stethoscope against my chest.

"Well, doc?" I ask every time. "am I still sick?"

"Still sick," he informs me with a solemn nod.

The kids get to visit me again the night before my second surgery. I've taken my first shower in days, avoiding looking at the weirdness of my stomach, now deflated but sporting a huge bulge where my stomach is supposed to be. The tumor is the size of an NFL football now.

When Charlie rushes at me with the stethoscope, he barely taps it on my heart before announcing "All betterrrrr!"

"Oh, all better! Yay! That's so good, Charlie!" Rachel says encouragingly.

"I have a good doctor!" I say, reaching over to pick him up. I have the disheartening realization that my arms are too weak to lift him up entirely. Instead I bring him up onto the couch with me, holding him close while he starts talking about some random video of the cat and the guys and the patty-cake song. Grace curls up on the other side, and before I know it, both my babies are snuggled up on either side of me, trying not to nod off.

I look up at Rachel, my eyes pleading not to cut the visit short.

Maybe she figured she owed me for springing the conversation with Grace on me, so she doesn't. Instead she pulls out of her phone and takes a picture of the three of us. "Perfect," she says softly, blinking rapidly and turning away from us. She sets the phone down on the entertainment center and sets a timer, and then comes back to the couch. Sitting on the other side of Charlie, she smiles at the camera.

She's the only one smiling. Charlie is falling asleep. Grace's head rests on my chest and she's looking off into the distance. I'm looking down at them both, silently begging and praying that there will be more moments like this, for as long as there can be.

...

After they leave, I get a phone call from McGarret.

"Good news," he says. "Kainoa is out of the hospital. He's going back to work tomorrow."

"That IS good news," I repeat dryly. "He's going out, I'm going in."

"True," Steve sighs. "Ramen is still touch and go. I mean he's awake, he's talking, but he's still considered critical condition. We have a detail on his hospital door, since this was clearly an attack against law enforcement. He's a bit... vulnerable at the moment."

"Was Ailani able to put anything else together? A memory, a composite? A three dimensional rendering of his face?"

"No," Steve replies. "She's pretty shaken. Even if she did see something..."

"Trauma-induced amnesia, yes," I fill in. "If only all of us were so lucky."

"You're grumpy today."

"Why do you think that is, huh? Any guess? I give you three guesses."

"I couldn't possibly guess." Steve shifts around on the other line. "What time am I picking you up tomorrow?"

"Eight a.m."

"I'll be there. Pack a bigger bag this time, because I'm not letting you come home after a few days. This is the big one, buddy. You'll need someone around."

"Someone with a better bedside manner?"

"Hey, I think I'm getting better at this."

I fall silent for a moment. "Yes," I say slowly, "Yes you are."

I know we both hate the fact that I'm giving him bedside manner job experience for the actively dying.

...

* * *

...

 _This is a ridiculously long author note. Feel free to skip. It's OK._

 _Hello readers! Thank you so much for your warm and wonderful reviews. It really has helped me, and it just makes me so, so, so appreciative of everything. There's been some stuff going on with my family and it's been really hard, so having your reviews has been comforting to say the least. If any of you are people of prayer (I know some of you are), I'd love some extra prayers on my family's behalf._

 _On the other hand, not all is doom and gloom. I've had the opportunity to meet with some producers and get some free-lance work for one of my most favorite celebrities ever (not from Hawaii 5-0, though, haha,) and I CAN'T SAY WHO AND IT MAKES ME CRAZY! lol! Either way, I'm also doing some really fun projects and I will be sure to tell you guys all about it when they're on youtube._

 _My friends and I started re-watching Hawaii 5-0 from the beginning of season one. I was studying everything that Danny did meticulously. At one point he itched the bottom of his chin in a certain way and I snorted and I was like "Ha, well, Holly was wrong, I NEVER do stuff like that."_

 _Like ten minutes later I realized I was itching the bottom of my chin in the exact same way and I was like "damnit."_

 _Which by the way, I vlogged my whole Hawaii trip. If you want to see the trip so far, I am putting them in episodic format (and yes, almost every episode title is a Hawaiian word, just like the show) and I just uploaded a new episode last night about... DUH DUH DUH DUUUUHHHH... The Iolani Palace episode where we visit the Hawaii 5-0 "headquarters"! If you want to find me on youtube, the playlist is called My Hawaii Adventure and my youtube name is Mya Papaya, and the vlog series I make is called Mya Papaya Adventures._


	10. Under the pahi

_..._

Under the _pahi_ (knife)

...

* * *

...

This time something else is doing the killing, and I'm waiting for some reprieve. When the morning of my surgery rolls along, I feel half-dead already. Weak, nauseous, exhausted. I lost twelve pounds in the two weeks since the failed surgery.

The negatively lingers like a bad odor. Thoughts like _you're going to die, you won't even make it through surgery, your kids are orphans,_ keep flooding through my brain in single file.

We're in a different section of the hospital this time, and it feels more like the emergency department. I don't know why we're in a different section, but it seems they have different operating rooms for different procedures. This was is just a little more... involved... than the last one.

I've had "the talk" with the scrubs and signed the papers. Yes, yes, I am aware that this tumor is the size of a nine-month old child. Yes, I am aware that it is technically stomach cancer, even though the tumor is reaching over to my intestines and is so huge and alive it has formed its own blood vessels. I know you have to remove part of my intestines too.

I get it. It's an animal.

Get it the f*ck out of me.

There were other versions of "the talk" I had to have. I also had to make a very uncomfortable phone call to my mother. It began normally, but I jumped right in to why I was calling late at night. It ended with enough grief to shatter cell towers and bring down divine intervention. Or maybe that was just my wish list.

"Love you, Ma," I said quietly before I hung up.

"And I love you, my sweet boy," she sobbed.

Hanging up felt cruel.

I thought I was spending a little time at the office, alone, cleaning up my desk and making sure I hadn't forgotten any paperwork I needed to sign off on before officially being down for the count. But Chin was working overtime too, and he tapped on the glass and peered in once the cell was down on the table. I was rubbing my fists against my temples, fighting off another migraine.

"Did you finally call your mom?" he asked.

I fiddled with a pen. "Ah - yeah."

"How'd it go? Are you okay? Is she okay?"

"I can't... even begin to describe how it went, I can't," I said, my voice hoarse and choked with my own denial. "She's ah... she's upset. It's a light term to use, but I'm using it. Yeah. She's devastated."

"Is she going to tell the rest of your siblings?"

"Stella already knows, Eric told her after I told him last week. But yeah. Now it's on her to have uncomfortable phone calls. If I could do it all myself I would, but I can't keep having this same conversation over and over and over," I roll my wrist around waving off each word like a struggling politician who can't think of anymore lies. "Y'know what she said to me? y'know what she's thinking right now?"

"I don't know," Chin replied quietly.

"When I told her it was stage four, I heard her hit something. Actually hit something. My perfectly manicured-" (fingernail wriggle for emphasis) "-mother hit something with her bare hand, broke it, and then she said these words - ' _parents aren't supposed to out-live their children!'"_

I took a breath, then. Surprised at sharing this intimacy with him, but feeling like I had nothing else to do. "She's definitely assuming at this point that I'm going to die and she'll be reading my eulogy. While she might be right, it's disconcerting to hear her actually say what I've been wondering this whole time."

Chin then sat down on the edge of my desk. "You okay?"

"No, no I'm not, but now I'm more worried about my mother."

He gave me a grim smile. "You're mother is a strong woman. Is she going to visit?"

"She can't get medical leave from her job unless its regarding a dependent for some god-forsaken reason. While I really hope she is not claiming me as a dependent on her taxes, her hands are tied till she can talk to her boss Monday and ask for vacation time. She's going to be up here sometime in the next few days. I just hope I have good news for her."

...

There's no waiting in the waiting room this time. They literally have me sign in and go right into the prep room, which is upsettingly crowded. There's six beds along one wall, curtains between each one, and on the right side, a counter also functioning as a desk with med supply cupboards under and above it. The backs of the barstools they've pulled up to their counter/desks almost brush the ends of the beds. People turn sideways to walk through. The room is bustling with interns, surgeons, nurses, radiologists, private caregivers, and patients. It's a shit show.

I'm ushered behind the curtain and told how to undress by a nurse. That's never how I really imagined that sort of conversation should really be going.

I do what they tell me. What else can I do? I can keep grousing and making a fuss about everything, but I promised Grace. _I am doing this for Grace, not me. I've given up on myself at this point. This is for Grace. Charlie and Grace need their dad. I need them too._

When I'm wearing the paper gown and tucked under blankets, they tuck a hose under the end of the blanket and start blasting heat. Too much, in fact. We're in freakin' Hawaii.

I casually kick the hose out from under the blanket just as Rachel and Grace are brought back to see me. Only two allowed at a time... one thing Rachel and I agreed on, Charlie did not need to "see me off". He's too young and it's too upsetting to see someone all hooked up on a table being rolled out by the scrubs through those swinging double doors. There is an unspeakable anxiety to see that from a child's perspective. Post surgery is much better option.

"Monkey!" I greet happily, holding my arms out. Grace's eyes are wet and streamy, her face haggard and exhausted when she leans down and gives me a hug crafted for eggshells. She's afraid of hurting me. "Hey, come on, what are the tears for? Huh? I'm going to be fine. This is a _good_ thing. Chances are they'll make me all better. Right? Isn't it good?"

"Yes, of course," Rachel complies. "This is exactly what we need to make Danno all better."

Grace gives her the look. She doesn't want to be babied... not today, anyhow. I've realized that I can flip a switch and she gets five years younger and wishes to be treated like it. But not today.

 _"Hey,"_ I say in a low voice. "Look at me, Grace."

She hesitantly looks at me, her entire countenance downcast.

"One day at a time," I tell her. "Okay? Let's just take it together, all right? That's all I'm asking. Don't give up on me just yet."

She nods solemnly. "I love you Danno."

"I love you too. How about another hug? That last one was weak. And you can _hug_ me, I'm not made of glass."

We embrace, and I hold her a little too tightly to be anything remotely close to bravado. I kiss the top of her head. Then they leave, Grace waves goodbye.

I had already received my _good lucks_ from Chin, Kono, Lou, and even Jerry arrived to see me off. Eric called and said he had gotten called in to work but would be there to greet me afterwards. _Nice kid,_ I think to myself suddenly. _Idiotic, but a nice guy. A nightmare... but... not horrible. He's still part of the fa..._ I correct my own mind before I finish the thought. It's Hawaii, for f*cks sake. _Part of the ohana._

Steve comes into my prep corner of the crowded room and looks immense next to the curtains and the people bustling back and forth. My new surgeon, the cancer specialist named Dr. Juan Havez, comes in and speaks with me for a few minutes, with Steve standing guard against the wall, trying not interrupt with his own doubtful questions. He brings a second person, named Dr. Lilly Akua. They are both specialists for cancerous surgeries.

My tumor is so massive and complicated that I need two surgeons. Two specialists.

Someone to help the other guy in case things go horribly wrong.

It could be worse. Dr. Lilly Akua could be horribly difficult to look at, which she isn't. My mind suddenly programs itself to call her Dr. Sexy. Which makes me instantly forget her real name, but luckily for my asshole of a brain, she has a name tag.

Then it's already time to go. Steve claps my hand in his own for something that starts out like a handshake but always turns into a pathetically desperate sort of hug.

 _Once more, with feeling!_

"I love you, man," he says.

I mumble something about him being an idiot but then I think twice and say, "I love you too. Whatever."

"Whatever, huh?" Steve repeats.

"It's true, you big baby."

Then I'm being rolled out, and I glance behind me once more at the swinging door that shuts. I can't remember if they gave me anxiety pills this time around, and now I am wishing I _could_ remember. But the thought of possibly not having one within the last hour is what makes me sort of panicky, more so than the roving lights overhead in repeating succession, or the blue stripe against the wall or the fact that this trip down the hallway feels far more urgent and intense. I feel like I am being rolled into the ER after a shooting, not a surgery they've been preparing for for two weeks.

When I am in the operating room, they put the mask over my face.

"Y'know," I say, muffled, "The last time we played this game, they didn't give me enough, and I didn't fall asleep when I was supposed to."

Dr. Sexy looks at me with a grim smile. "That's not going to happen here," she says confidently.

"It might," I grumble with something like a smile. The lights are bright, and I think it's best to shut my

...

eyes.

Blink.

Shut for approximately three seconds, nothing but a micro-nap. But the bed is moving and I am being rolled down the hallway.

I realize I'm talking. Rather confusedly and loudly, but I have no idea what I am saying. I can't understand my own language. They're just mumblings, forming sentences, some sort of arrangement of English words with a question mark tagged at the end.

The nurse pushing my bed is answering the question, but I don't understand her either. I am completely rambling again, and she rambles back.

I woke up early. Usually someone is supposed to wake up in recovery, in a different room all hooked up and ready to go. But they're still wheeling me out of the operating department to the recovering section. The halls are looking less like the belly of a machine and more like a welcoming lobby. Instead of a mobile machine on wheels stuck in a corner that they roll in whenever someone codes, there are potted plants. It makes me feel more stable, despite the fact I am now supposedly chuckling at a joke that the nurse made but I don't understand the punch line. My whole body is completely paralyzed from the neck down and my brain is filled with helium again, so I am not concerned about being in pain.

"Mmmm done, riiiight?" I ask as cohesively as possible.

"All done," the nurse assures me.

"Gotten all ub it outta me, yah?" I pester her.

"Got it all out of you," she promises. "And you have someone waiting for you."

She pushes my bed into my private recovery room. It has a bathroom in the corner, cupboards all along one side, and a window looking out onto Honolulu with a glitter of ocean in the distance. There's a computer station beside the window for the nurses. Sitting on the small rolling stool is the most beautiful woman I think I have ever seen, and the strangest thing is, I know I know who she is, but I can't place how I know her. I recognize her face but have absolutely no recollection how I know her. I just know that she is absolutely positively the only person in the world I would want to see right at this moment.

"Hey," I say in surprise. The nurse pushes the bed against the wall, so I have the window and computer on my left side, the bathroom and entrance on my right. It's sort of a big room.

"Morning, my sweet boy," she replies, getting up and embracing me. "I got here," she says, rather tearfully, "I dropped everything and got on the god-damn plane. I didn't care about anything else. I just needed to be here for you when you woke up. How do you feel?"

"Like I'm... confused, uhhhh," I was still trying to place her name, but I realized, the name didn't actually matter so much as the title. "Ma," I say, suddenly realizing what that title was. She wouldn't expect me to call her by her name anyhow. "It's good to see you. How was your flight?"

"Who cares? It smells funny, people are strange, I think I ate eighteen peanut packets. My ass must be huge now." She bends down and kisses my forehead and I feel like I am eight years old again. "I was able to sit and play chess with my beautiful grandchildren in the waiting room. How often do long-distance grandmothers get to do that?"

"Not many," I say blearily. "Please. Sit. Tell me what's going on in the Williams clan."

My mother begins to tell me each and every sibling's reaction to my news, in the most polite and short way possible. About how they are all thinking positive thoughts for me, and sorry to hear about everything. I am not necessarily close with my siblings, so I don't expect them to show up in the lobby shrouded by the stink of the airport and carrying suitcases. But still, there's a small part of me that wonders which will bother sending cards.

My body is starting to wake up and I can feel it. I feel like my skin has turned gray, sagging from my bones, a mere skin-bag with which I can hang a brain and some feelings inside. I would blow away in a strong wind.

My mouth is dry, and then the nausea begins to trickle in. Slowly at the corners, just teasing the entrances and exits to my brain, but never quite descending so far as to actually twist my stomach into knots. Not yet, anyway.

I've fallen asleep halfway through Mama's conversation, and I begin to blink again when the nurse is also talking to me. I don't really know the importance of our chat, or if its just a quick check-in to make sure there's no surgery complications that will kill me abruptly and unexpectedly. And then the room starts to fill in with people... Kono, holding balloons, Chin with a lei, Lou with a goodie basket lovingly put together by his wife and daughter, Grace with her own special "Get well soon" balloon and something called an _adult coloring book_ , which I snatch out of her hands quickly.

Charlie brings me crayons, lovingly handed over the bed railing by Rachel since Charlie couldn't quite reach and he didn't want to be 'picked up'. Rachel explains that adult coloring books are the latest rage, full of complicated patterns and kaleidoscope designs mean to bring mental clarity, spiritual healing, and decrease physical tension. I decide _not_ to tell her that I first took the word "adult" to mean _ADULT_. Like a coloring book of pictures rated X.

Steve brings in another lei, Abby has brought in a real bouquet (like the nice ones you dye and stick the stems in green foam) and Jerry comes in with a book about Area 51. Eric brings me a worn box that says _Battleship_ on the side... literally the same boxed game that Stella and I used to play in the 70s. She took it with her when she moved out. And, at some point, gave it to Eric, who brought it to college and then Hawaii. Its oddly moving.

Or it will be until Steve gets his thick mitts on it and challenges me to a game later. We all know he cheats and he thinks he can change the rules because he's Navy. You can't let an actual Navy guy play Battleship. They don't understand the rules. Or they try to play by actual battleship regulation. Like the time Steve put one of his boats diagonally, even though the pegs didn't fit, and declared the "degrees" at which it was pointed so that it could deflect the sunlight off the starboard side and confuse the enemy.

That was the last time we ever played battleship.

Kamekono and Flippa come in bearing swag from the shrimp truck. A bright orange snapback hat with the yellow shrimp logo, and a... coffee cup cozy. But with no coffee. I put the orange cap on my head, backwards, for Grace and Charlie's benefit. I inform them that now they know what their father looked like at age sixteen growing up in Jersey. I can tell Grace has some severe doubts that I am being truthful. But apparently its enough to make Charlie change his mind about wanting a snuggle. Rachel carefully lifts him up and tucks him between my right arm (without the IV) and the bed rail, instructing him carefully not to go anywhere near my stomach because _Danno has a big, big yucky owie._ He sits happily and eventually his wildly similar blond head makes its way to my shoulder where he starts to doze off.

It turns into a party. The more awake I become, the better I feel. The pain medication is not something I have to ask for this time. There is a small cord trailing from a machine beside my bed connected to a gimmick that looks like a remote control with only one button. When that button is green, it means I can hit it, and pain medication floods my IV. Even if the light has turned off and I start to feel a twinge in my abdomen, all I have to do is slow my breathing down and wait it out for thirty seconds... not moving, barely breathing. Then it lights up again, and I slam my thumb down. I keep that remote tucked beside me - it is my lifeline. I can't entertain these many people and not have it within reach.

I feel better than I have in weeks.

Eventually my surgeon stops by the to see me, and I am not the only one who notices how gorgeous she is. Jerry and Eric make some sort of awkward gestures at me, which sort of looked like tap dancing and then writing a parking ticket. I assume they want me to ask for her number and then get laid, which can't exactly happen any time soon.

We speak for a few minutes about how the surgery went. She asks if I mind speaking in front of the incredibly large amount of people that have crammed themselves into my room. Half of them aren't listening anyway, so I say I don't mind.

"Technically speaking," she says, "You're in remission, Detective Williams. We've removed all the cancer. You are one of the lucky ones."

I almost can't believe what I am hearing. I might be weeping. No, that's Steve. I'm not. I'm smiling like an idiot, and I nearly squeeze Charlie to death, now tucked in my arm and his head lolling sleepily onto my chest but not to close to the gaping incision. Grace is on my other side, and she throws an arm around mine, gripping my hand as hard as I am gripping hers.

"Your doctor and I conferred, however," she says, "And we both believe it is vitally important that you receive three rounds of treatments to be absolutely, one-hundred percent sure. It there is even one, tiny piece of cancer left the size of a grain of sand, it would mean the cancer returns. And we don't want to take that risk. We'd rather destroy a decent amount of cells to eradicate any doubt. It means a few months of discomfort, but it also could mean your life." She pauses and considers the loudness of the room, how celebratory everyone is. "With a great support team, the decision should be easy. Those with no one to help them are less apt to do treatment. But with you..." she looks at Charlie's drooping eyelids. "I recommend that you think about it. Seek a third opinion. Discuss it over with your family. Consider further treatment."

"I don't need to discuss it," I say firmly. "I'll do it." I look at Grace, and she nods. "I made a promise."

She nods. "I am glad to hear it."

Jerry and Mom are getting along surprisingly well because they both decide I've had enough frivolity for one day. Jerry starts to herd Kamekono, Flippa, and Eric out the door, telling them "The man needs his strength! Go home!"

My mother begins to collect gifts and balloons left for me and put them in some sort of order, speaking in soft voices with my children, giving them long hugs and even exchanging civil words with Rachel. Eventually it's time for Grace to do her homework, which she asks if she can do in the hospital room. Rachel finally gives in, as long as my Ma brings her straight home when she's finished. After Rachel kisses my forehead and totes a sleeping Charlie out into the hall, Ma looks at me with a side-eye and says, "Nice of her to ask if I even rented a car."

"Did you?" I ask.

"Of course I did," she drawls in that whispery, smokers laugh. "Doesn't she think I know my way around here now?"

Grace rolls her eyes and buries her face in a thick textbook, tucked in a cheap cushioned armchair in the corner that one would buy, not second but third hand, in a thrift store for an RV.

Eventually it's just my 5-0 team saying farewell. Abby and Chin look at each other rather cozily before mutually agreeing to leave together and end up somewhere together-together. Lou promises he'll be back with a deck of cards and will challenge me to a real gentleman's game (he says this with a distrustful glance at the Battleship box). Kono offers to bring by a small portable DVD player from her apartment, along with not one... but two... Double-O-Seven movies. I can't remember the last time I watched a James Bond movie. I can't remember the last time Kono ever admitted to owning any movies. When does she even have time between surfing and work?

I don't remember saying my goodbyes, either, because the next time I notice anything, the clock on my cell reads 11:55 PM, Steve is stretched out on a trundle bed on wheels between me and the bathroom, and its dark. Only the computer and everything I'm hooked up to is glittering like Christmas twinkle lights. Steve is sort of snoring, and Grace and my Ma have long since gone home. I feel sorta sad and alone, but I know it's probably just the fact that I'm on god-knows-what sorts of drugs and Dr. Sexy is standing next to the bed looking down at me.

"Evening," she greets in a whisper so that she doesn't wake Steve. "And how are we feeling?"

"We're feeling awake," I say with surprise. It's true. I feel so awake that I question whether or not someone hooked me up to a new IV that only pumps caffeine.

"Have you passed any gas yet?" she asks.

I'm so thrown off by the question that I snort loudly. "No?" I say. "Can't speak for him, though," I gesture my thumb at Steve's completely unaware and indefensible sprawling figure. He would kill me if he knew what I said, but I don't care. I'm giggling on the inside.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Okay."

"Do I even want to know why that's what you have to ask me at this time of night?"

"Well," she says, "To put it bluntly, it's to make sure we reattached your intestines correctly. That's not the clinical term. But after a removal, returning the two ends together and making sure air and waste can pass through..."

I hold up an arm heavy with random tubes going a variety of directions. "I get the picture. Can I walk?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You still have the ability to walk..."

"No, I know I'm not paralyzed or something, I'm wondering if I can go for a walk. Right now."

"Right now."

"Yes. Right now."

She tilts her head. "You want to go on a walk."

"Okay, lady, er, Doc, sorry, I get that, for some reason, my asking if I can go on a walk is weird. What I need is some sort of affirmation from you that it's _okay_ for me to do so. I wouldn't want to jeopardize, in any way, me keeping a promise to a certain precocious daughter of mine."

"Certainly," she says. "I understand. You may take a walk if you want. I am just very surprised. Ordinarily a person with this sort of surgery has to be begged. And even then, sometimes they refuse until they are walking to work on their first day back from medical leave. _"_

"So feeling like walking the night of is not normal?" I ask warily.

"No, not normal at all."

"But is it a BAD sign?"

"I wouldn't think so. Why don't we try sitting up first, though? Just to see how it goes."

I have the energy of someone half my age before a high school basketball game. I can't explain it. Not only do I sit up easily, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and I am up and carting my IV stand over to the bathroom in the corner. I relieve myself and particularly avoid looking anywhere at my stomach. _I am not an old man yet,_ I repeat like a mantra. _I am not making my kids fatherless. Not yet. It's gone. It's out of me. There's nothing to be scared of._

And then I start walking down the hallway like I own the joint, dragging my IV laden hat-tree on wheels along beside me. I walk down one hall, about 100 feet or so, turn a right at the nurse's station, make another right on the other side, and go back up a parallel hall to mine. At the ends, they connect in a shorter hall, putting me right back where I started.

At the door, Steve is rubbing his fists in his eyes like a giant toddler.

"Morning," he says blearily. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What am I - what am I doing? What are you doing?" I ask. "Sleeping over in that tiny hideaway? You don't have to be here. Go home."

"Fat chance. What ARE you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doin'? I'm takin' a walk! I like walking. But I'm tired now, so I'm gonna go night-night. Goodnight."

I shuffle past him back into the hospital room, and I can _hear_ his eyebrows rising at Dr. Sexy. Whose name I have now forgotten again. _Damnit._

"Do you ordinarily have to follow your patients around in circles who think they are participating in snail races?" Steve asks.

"You know, you'd actually not find that as funny as you find it now if you weren't sleep deprived," I call over my shoulder. "Rethink your joke in the morning and you will have a different opinion."

"I'll stand by it," Steve scoffs.

Dr. Sexy nods towards me. "He should be tired. The adrenaline will wear off eventually. Don't let him over-exert himself."

"Don't, _don't_ tell him that," I groan. "Now you've spoiled it. He won't let me do anything now." I slowly lower myself onto the bed, and have some difficulty hoisting my legs back onto the bed. Dr. Sexy steps in to help, and places the blanket back over me.

"I'll be back in an hour," she says. "Try to get some sleep."

"Sure, sure," I mumble, drifting towards oblivion. Steve settles back onto the trundle bed, but he sits on the edge and just stares at me. I grumble an annoyed, muffled protest that doesn't even sound like real words, because I'm asleep already. But not for long. Trying to get a solid night of sleep in a hospital is like trying to move to Hawaii to be close to your ex-wife and daughter. It's not easy, and I hate how it makes me feel, even if I like the people I'm with.

As night rolls into the dawn, a morning that feels way too early and purply outside to be anything but unusually windy and chilly, we're both chilled and crabby with each other. I can see the glitter of Honolulu turning from black shapes patterned by the orange glow within each window and streetlamp to the misty serenity of island life, coaxing itself out of a dark that usually hides plenty of criminals and the things they commit.

A nurse comes in every few moments, it feels like, fiddling around with something on the computer, asking me questions, replacing IV bags, giving me something else to drink or swallow, and a million other little things that all blend together... like some sort of mixed cereal. But never lucky charms. The opposite of lucky, but it still has those little things that are called marshmallows that aren't really marshmallows, just tiny rainbow-colored sugar-death cubes! One look and it gives you diabetes!

"What?" Steve asks.

"What?" I repeat.

"Huh?" he says again.

"No, really, what?" I ask.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"What'd I say?"

"What are death cubes?" he snickers.

"I honestly have no idea."

"Rainbow death cubes."

"Did I say that?"

"You said we're full of rainbow death cubes."

"I cannot honestly tell you if I was dreaming or thinking out loud," I say, "But whatever it was, it doesn't sound good."

"Like the time you wanted to blow-dry your salad?"

"Apparently a lot of my sleeptalking is food-related. And you remember a disturbing amount of my dialogue. Either I'm sleeping over at your place too much, or I talk too much."

"Both of those are probably true."

I start to drift off again. "Uh huh. Yeah."

It's not so much that I talk in my sleep too much, it's more that I sleep too much. In general. Sleeping is all I do nowadays. I called in late a few times to work, even on days with really important cases, because I slept through eight different alarms all set with different tones or responses. I'm just too damn tired all the time. Too tired to protect myself if someone, say, like the perp who targets cops, were to sneak into my room when everyone is sleeping.

It'd be just my luck, wouldn't it? Sure, lay there and be vulnerable like a peach. What's more vulnerable than a peach? Couldn't someone just say they're a visitor and walk right in? That's what they'll say, all right, that Detective Danny Williams, he could stop bullets with his mind and beat cancer but he couldn't keep the man in black from standing at the foot of his bed. Couldn't keep the jackass from jabbing a needle full of nitroglycerine... or arsenic... some sort of classic poison into the IV line just so he could watch me get pumped full of death juice before I even get a chance at trying out chemotherapy. Watch that syringe full of poison get emptied into my IV and watch me die! That's just what will happen!

 _BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP..._

I'm blinking with confusion at the daylight starting to turn gold out of slate gray, pushing a cold blue light into the hospital room that echoes with a shrill beep going f*cking insane from the IV machine. I thought I was dreaming. About a syringe. And poison. And the guy trying to kill cops. And how I might be next.

 _BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP..._

 _I thought I was dreaming about the guy with the syringe and yet there is an alarm going off right now...? What the hell?_

"What's that?" Steve yawns and forces himself to stand crookedly, stretching his arms behind his head. "Is that the wall, or you?"

"It's me," I say in a slightly shrill voice. My cell phone buzzes on the bedside table. "Can you check that, please? Steven? While I answer this?"

"Sure, man, I'm sure it's fine," Steve walks around the end of my bed and checks the IV box portion with all the stupid buttons on it.

"Good morning," I say groggily into the phone.

I can almost hear Kono smiling. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Eh, okay," I shrug, raising my eyebrows at Steve to try and gauge what he's looking at.

 _BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

"What is that?" Kono asks.

"Yeah, what is that?" I ask.

"It says ERROR," says Steve. "Bubble in line."

"Get the fucking nurse!" I explode with absolute irrationality, my mind still completely fogged up with sleep. In my mind's eye I'm seeing an air bubble in my IV line traveling towards my veins, and when that bubble gets to my veins... it bursts and the deadly poison burns me up from the inside and then I'm a dead man... "I gotta go, it's the... the alarm is, I gotta go!" I hang up on Kono and drop my phone, looking around for the call button. All I have in my head is a picture of a shadow standing at the end of my bed, not more than a few hours ago. Doctor? Nurse? Or someone in black clothes targeting cops? What did he put in the bag? What did he put in _me?_ What is about to enter my bloodstream?

"Here, I got it," Steve says confusedly. He presses the call button on the other remote on my bed, but nothing happens at first. The light at the end of it is supposed to flash, and then the nurse is supposed to call...

There. Flash of light. "How can I help, Detective Williams?" says the voice from the remote, like a really crappy flip phone. Tinny and cutting out with a bad signal in a horror film.

"Deadly air bubble," I bark into the remote.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Steve exclaims.

"Would you like some wat..." suddenly the nurse's voice cuts out, and the light goes off again. No working remote. No response, no buttons have any effect whatsoever.

My heart does something it hasn't done for awhile, not since the actual poison terrorist milk spill incident. The beat starts going way faster than it's supposed to - I can feel it hammering away, and it sets off another alarm.

"What the?" Steve looks at the wall. "Danny!" he says, with, ironically, his own kind of alarm. "Your heart rate..."

My heart is racing like a nascar competition. "I'm not going to fucking die from this thing!" I shout, starting to fiddle with the tubes. "I'm ripping it out of my fucking arm, do you hear me?"

And then a third alarm goes off. Blood pressure rising through the roof.

"Jesus Christ," Steve hits the remote again, nothing happens, so he takes off out of the room like a greased bullet.

I'm sitting in my hospital room alone, watching the bubble proceed with some caution down the clear plastic tube toward my vein. _this is it,_ I think. _I'm dying in here alone from a fucking air bubble full of cyanide in my veins._ But at some point I think I realize that I am completely bat-shit crazy and I'm probably just going to die from giving myself a heart attack more than anything else.

But I also feel completely and totally crushed with loneliness. Is this how I am supposed to go? A middle-aged father of two sitting by himself in a hospital bed because he didn't have the heart to stop something before it happened?

Not me, and not today!

I grab the IV tube in one hand and start to give it a tug, wondering if there is an easier way to get it out without breaking it off in the wrong place. It pulls on my skin.

"Detective Williams, leave it," Nurse Sonia has burst into the room like professional speed-walker, dashing fluidly to the IV and hitting a button. The IV alarm goes off, but the other two alarms are still blaring horribly. "The bubble isn't going to hurt your IV," she says quickly. "It's totally normal."

Even if she's wrong, she's stopped me already and it's too late. I watch the bubble slip into the needle and into my vein. "What?" I ask, my chest heaving. "But the... the thing... wasn't... it was _in_ it..."

"There was nothing in it," Nurse Sonia turns the console so I can see it. "Look. Perfectly normal. Air bubbles come through all the time. I promise. This is normal."

"Yeah I know _air_ bubbles are normal - but not - if they're - full of..." I trail off and realize I'm not really breathing.

"Detective Williams," she says calmly, "I am going to need you to take deep breaths." She has a very clinical, professionally _worried_ look. "We need to bring your blood pressure and heart rate down. _NOW."_ She casts an urgent look at Steve. "Right now," she repeats.

Steve plants himself at the end of my bed and faces me. "Danny," he says. "You're okay. Did you hear the nurse? She says you're okay. You're _okay._ Trust me. It's okay. Deep breaths, man. In, out. In, out. You with me?" He holds my shoulders and gets really up close and personal. "Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. It's okay. You're okay. This is normal. You were probably just getting confused with one of your wacky dreams or something. There wasn't anything in your IV. Just a normal air bubble. Not a bubble of anything else. Just air. You _need_ air. Come on. Breathe with me. In, out. In, out."

The alarm for the blood pressure stops blaring, but the heart rate one is still beeping uncomfortably. _I'm_ uncomfortable. I feel like a ticking clock about to lose a cog.

"Come on," says the nurse in an encouraging tone. "We need to get your heart rate back to normal. Okay? Listen to us very carefully. We're not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? It's all right. Will you drink some water for me?"

My hand is shaking so bad when I accept the water cup that its sloshing all over. I take a few sips and put it down on the table. I can barely think. My whole body is shaking with fear, shock, and embarrassment. I was half-asleep, I didn't know what I was thinking. Only that I thought I was about to die alone without having said goodbye to my children.

Steve puts his hand over my heart. "Come on," he says quietly, "Let's slow this horse down. Okay? Deep breath for me. Good. In, and out. In, and out. Good. Come on."

I drop my chin to my chest and concentrate on breathing. My hair flops down but I don't bother to smooth it back with my signature flat-palmed motion. Each breath is a gravely heave inward, and each exhale is vocal, as if it is physically painful to let them out. Maybe it is.

Steve embraces me, and he doesn't care that I am breathing so damn hard with my mouth hanging open that I actually drool. I think about the times I've seen kids with special needs who drool on a regular basis. For a brief, short time, I feel as if I am in someone else's shoes, and I feel humbled. Grateful. Afraid, but empathetic.

There may be some big grown-up man tears of shameful fear and confusion and some sort of other-worldy physical pain that one experiences when it's something you can't really feel for yourself unless alarms go off and tell you that the _intensity_ you feel is really, really wrong. It isn't so much of a sharp pain as it is an oppressive heaviness that leaks from your lungs to your wrists, and tells your mind that it can't work anymore, and that you're a failure from failing to recognize drug-induced dream-threats to the real kinds.

The heart rate alarm is off, but I don't really recall when it has gone off. It has taken me an inappropriate amount of time to get it down to normal, but no one should be putting a timetable on panic attacks. I am sure if we could control them, we would just choose not to have them, wouldn't we?

Steve's phone is buzzing like a swarm of yellow jackets. He finally answers and holds it up to his ear. "Yeah," he says shortly. "Yeah. I'm so, so sorry we scared you, Kono. It's okay. He's okay. Just, uh," he looks down at me. "He's really shaken up." He gets up from the bed and moves towards the window, talking quietly. "He was really out of it and the IV machine kept showing some error message and he thought it was the type of error that meant he was about to die. Um, no, I mean... he's better now. Not great. It would have been fine if we could have just figured out what was bothering him to begin with, but then his blood pressure and heart rate literally shot through the roof and we thought he was about to give himself a stroke. Then _every_ alarm was going off." He glances at me and turns his back, whispering, "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."

I extend my hand towards him, and wait. Eventually he turns around and puts the phone in my waiting palm.

"I am so, so sorry I hung up on you like that, Kono," I say.

She's crying. Kono is not a vocal cryer, more of the eye-fill type with graceful brushes with her hand beneath her eyes to wipe away stray tears. But I can tell she is crying by the watery, high-pitched tone of her voice. "Are y-you o-okay?" she questions with a wobbly timbre.

"I'm okay now. I am so sorry."

"Don't apologize," she sniffs, "I am just so relieved you're okay. Don't... don't do that to yourself. You can't beat cancer and then get taken out by your own worries. It's not fair."

"I'll do my best," I reassure her. "Don't... don't mention this to anyone, will ya? It'll just worry people. And I don't want that. Worrying you is bad enough."

Kono promises that she won't, and says she'll be by to visit later. When I hang up, I sit for a moment in silence, hunching over painfully. I hit the green button again for the pain meds to flood my system.

Steve is forcing the cup into my hand again, and I drink it. Someone suggests breakfast. Someone says I have a visitor in the hall. But I don't want to see visitors, I want to forget this whole thing. I literally want them to gas me again so that I have another six-hour nap. At least then I wouldn't be thinking any more.

I am so sick of wondering if my next moment is going to be my last.

I ask if I can lay down. They give me permission. The only thing I can think of to do in response to "Surprise! You're not actually going to die right this second!" is to fall into another exhausted sleep.

...

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...

 _Author note - another story about my personal journey, feel free to skip and review_

 _By the time I got my tumor out, I felt like I hadn't eaten real food for months. When I had my second surgery, I had dropped down to eighty-two(ish) pounds. :O_

 _All the issues Danny has in this chapter post-surgery is not whump. I mean, not real whump. It's literally my experiences and what happened to me. The only difference is that when that first alarm started going off from the bubble, I literally thought that if that bubble reached my vein it would kill me. In Danny's version, he had a bad dream and thought it had happened, because in reality his character is a lot smarter than me and he wouldn't have had the same misunderstandings I did about how IVs work. I think I had seen a movie a long time ago where some bad guy tackles the good guy and stabs him in the vein with a little puff of air in a pen and then the guy DIES. Something easy and common sense for nurses is not the same common sense for artists like me that avoid anything clinical for most of their life. I failed biology and aced scriptwriting, okay?_

 _But I nearly gave my poor, poor darling coworker (actually, my supervisor!) a heart attack because I was on the phone with her when the alarm first started to go off. She heard the alarm, and then the call ended, and she thought I had coded and died. I felt so bad when I called her back and she was sobbing. I literally have never had such an amazing coworker. Best supervisor I have ever had._

 _The beautiful woman that greeted me after surgery was my amazing cousin from Colorado. I didn't realize she was going to be in town. It's weird when you see someone and you have no idea who they are but their face brings such peace and joy. It's probably like what seeing an angel is like! My cousin was that angel for me. But yeah I had no freaking idea who she was for a few minutes, all I knew was that her face made me so joyful and safe and loved that I didn't care if I was so high I had forgotten the name of someone I'd known my whole life! XD_

...

Please review! XOXOXOXOXOX


	11. eha

_Dearest readers, thank you so much for all of your encouragement, prayers, and sharing your personal stories. It's been a huge blessing. My only rules here is that there ARE no rules. Share your thoughts, leave your reviews. I appreciate you taking any time at all for my story. Thank you._

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 _'eha_

pain

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If I am still trying to play the game of _kill or be killed,_ here, I am clearly losing.

The trigger thing I get to hold, with the button that turns green whenever its time for another shot of pain meds to shoot through the IV, starts turning green less and less. It gets to a point that I'm watching the remote like a bird of prey, waiting, and waiting, and then it turns green and I slam my thumb on the button so hard it rips the plastic. Livin' on the edge here.

Everyone has to go back to work and try to live some semblance of a normal life. Three days in the hospital and I am starting to go insane. Steve hangs out with me for two whole days trying to keep me entertained and asking all the right questions of the nurses and jotting notes and reading about cancer on the internet.

On my second day I'm feeling annoyed, and oddly energetic. I pull the oxygen tube out of my nose and set it to the side and try to entertain Grace during her visit by pestering her about her schoolwork. Rachel brings Charlie by. Chin and Abby stop by with fresh flowers, even though there's nothing wrong with the last bouquets. One of my alarms start to go off again, and I try to ignore it, but I can't ignore that the mere sound of the fucking alarm makes my heart race ever so slightly with apprehension... no, wait. Scratch that. Not race. My heart isn't racing. It's more like a chest pain, but nothing like a panic attack. More exhausting and subtle.

"Hey, uh, man," Steve says with a bossy sort of gesture. "Putchyer thing back in."

"What thing?"

"Oxygen."

"Why? It's fine."

"You're wheezing."

I'm doing more than wheezing... I'm squeezing my eyes shut with a typical, charismatic squint, (which I've noticed Charlie doing in a learned, but perhaps genetic, sort of imitation) but its not because I'm investigating something interesting out in the sunlight.

I can't even breathe on my own yet.

It fills me with such a weak embarrassment that I, for a moment, hate myself.

I try to laugh it off and stick the thing back in my nose. The weird pressure in my chest instantly subsides, and my lungs expand like thirsty real estate.

"Oh," I say, enlightened. "That's what felt so funny. I wasn't breathing. Haha."

Steve gives me a look like he's ready to send me to my room without supper and returns to his magazine. "It's not funny," he mutters quietly.

"I know," I say, too loudly. "I know it's not even close."

Steve glances up. "Okay," he says, shutting the magazine, and wagging a finger back and forth between us. "What's this? Why are you yelling?"

"I'm not..." I am. "I'm not now," I say, lowering my voice.

"Speak to me."

"Okay, then, speaking," I say sarcastically, furrowing my brow and leaning as close to the bed rail as I can, so that Grace can't hear me from the vending machine in the hallway, where she is currently showing Charlie how to feed the metal box a dollar and get a magical juice bottle. "Here's what I am trying to wrap my brain around in this insignificant moment that I'll probably forget by tomorrow," I continue, "Humans need what to breathe, huh? What do they need?"

"Oxygen," Steven answers patiently.

"And what's the one thing I wasn't giving myself enough of just then?"

"Oxygen..."

"So the one basic human function that we are all supposed to do, the one fucking thing a human should be good at, is the one thing that I simply failed to do just then. What kind of person am I? If I can't even get breathing right? How does anyone expect me to... ya know... keep a job? Pay rent? Raise my children? I can't even breathe."

Steve slowly glances toward the window, where night is falling, and any minute now he is going to drive my children home and leave me alone. "You're breaking my heart, man," he says quietly. "But here's the thing, you're not special for not getting breathing right. You have a million other things to worry about. You can worry about chemo. You can worry about recovering from surgery. But don't worry about your breathing. You're not the first guy to have trouble breathing, and you won't be the last. If Charlie had asthma, for example, you wouldn't feel like a failure as a human. Because this would be a normal thing. Some people just have more trouble with breathing than other people. Be glad you don't have asthma. Get over it... you're in the hospital, you have to wear that... that thing. But its only temporary."

He opens his magazine again, and looks at it, but he's not reading. I can tell because his eyes aren't shifting back and forth from beginning of sentence to the ends. He's just staring at the page, concentrating.

"You just called me out on something," I say.

"I do that a lot."

"We argue a lot. Not the same."

"All right, then, yes," Steve looks up, and his chin is sticking out farther than usual. "I am calling you out. I will let you be all kinds of weird when it comes to cancer. So you're not allowed to feel like a failure for failing to breathe right. Why? Because if I _let you_ feel bad about _this,_ we are setting ourselves up for failure."

"How so?"

"If I let you feel bad about yourself for wheezing, you will _hate_ yourself for not being able to take a normal shit. For not being able to keep food down during chemo treatments. For passing out when the nausea gets really bad. For missing out on times with your kids because you're too weak to get out of bed." Steve takes a deep breath, and his voice goes almost too deep and quiet to hear. "It's only going to get rougher from here on out, buddy. So let's start keeping track of the victories instead of the failures, okay?"

I feel thoroughly schooled, but I know he's right.

"Okay," I reply shortly.

"Okay?" he repeats, more kindly.

"Yeah," I say, with a shrug, settling back into the pillows as Grace reenters the room, dragging Charlie by the hand. "I see the point, and rather than argue with it, I am choosing to accept it, and save my verbal judo for bigger battles where I _know_ I'm right and you are much more wrong than now."

"So you know I'm right."

"I didn't say that, I said I'll save my argument for when you're _more_ wrong."

Steve smiles. He knows he won the argument.

"Do I stress you out?" I ask, repeating a question that my brother once asked me. I had told him yes at the time. Now, I wish I hadn't, because he was dead, and I could never unsay it. It was true, but I with I hadn't been so truthful.

"Yes," Steve looks down at his magazine, a smile twitching. "You stress me out very much." Somehow this meant something more along the lines of _I love you to death, man,_ than it did anything else.

On the third day, there's some big hoop-de-doo. Night club owner shot dead in his office. Nothing illegal going on, to our surprise, in his night club. He wasn't trafficking and he wasn't laundering money. So who wanted him dead, and why?

So that makes my third day quiet and boring. Everyone is off investigating. Jump cuts to Kono and Chin in the car, canvassing the nearby shop owners, club-goers, well-known personalities, the colleagues and employees. McGarrett and Lou chase a random lead to the North Shore that turns out to be a dead end. Jerry seems to think the night club owner is just really, really good at hiding shady business deals. Abby confronts an angry ex-girlfriend with an alibi. Everyone has alibis.

And I just sit here, flipping channels.

Until Max calls me with an update on the autopsy.

"The night club owner was having sex not less than twenty minutes before he was shot and killed," says Max.

I excitedly start jotting notes down. "Do you think whomever he was having sex with WAS the killer? Or he was killed by someone who caught him in the act, or killed by someone afterwards?"

"Oh, how quickly I forget," Max says suddenly. "You are not on this case. I should be giving this information to Commander McGarrett."

"Wait, no, Max, I can help, don't hang up..."

 _Click._

Steve comes back in the evening after work to stay the night with me again. He has probably gotten less sleep than I, cuz at least I can sleep during the day between visits from the Ohana and before Grace stops by after school. But he gets woken up every half hour or so, with me, every time the nurse comes in for her Q and A and IV check routine.

I still don't get why they have to do it _so often._ Wouldn't once a night be sufficient? Like, 10 PM. Just before I go to sleep. Then they could leave me alone till morning.

During the third evening I realize something weird is happening to me. Yeah, sure the pain med doses are growing further and further apart, but the numbness is really going away. I can feel everything - every staple in my abdomen, every organ that was re-arranged. I can eat a wedge of apple and feel the apple traveling through intestines that are slowly beginning to take shape again. Doc says they were squeezed to paper-thin width from the tumor, and are starting to expand and return to normal. I can feel them growing back, like inflating a balloon. I can feel the big ol' slice down my middle, but luckily I haven't moved enough to test how painful it would be to move it the _wrong_ way.

Until now.

Steve and I are trying to talk with some level of normalcy. He's filling me in on the case at the nightclub.

"So, I don't get it," I hold up a hand, "The guy had a what on his face?"

"Uh... a stain, from a drink," says Steve, "Like... someone forced him to drink wine or something and spill it all over his chin before putting two bullets in his chest. Max is running tests. How old is the stain? Was he drinking before or after sex? With someone, or alone? Did he have a drink with the killer? We don't know. Either way, he spilled, and _never got a chance to wipe it up._ "

I stuck my chin out and nodded in a mocking sort of way. "Right, and that's, perfectly normal."

"Yeah, totally," Steve responds sarcastically.

"I'm gonna take a leak," I say, moving my legs out from under the blanket. "Then we should..."

But I did it wrong. Of course I managed to move _wrong._ Instead of swinging my legs to the side first, to support myself and stand up straight, I twisted my upper body at the waist. Bad, bad choice. Worse possible choice I've made for a long time. Worse than accepting a shrimp meal while stuck in a surveillance van on a hot day. Worse than, say, getting myself held up or letting Grace disappear to a party that I didn't check out first. This was the worst.

I make a horrible sound. Not really a gasp, and not really a yell. Just sort of a... _AUGK._

"Hey, Danno," Steve says, slowly. "You... uh... okay?" He gets up from his chair and walks over to my side at a slightly panicked speed. "Hey. Talk to me. What's up."

"I did _something,"_ I breathe heavily. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have moved that way. The incision hurts."

Its different than having a panic attack, though this is well on its way to causing one. My breathing is labored, and my entire chest hurts. Slicing, hellish, ravaging pains are shooting up through the incision through all the staples. I can feel each pinprick of each staple holding my abdomen shut and keeping the props from Walking Dead from spilling out all over.

It feels as if someone is repeatedly shoving an iron rod inside the wound and knocking it back and forth. And instead of hurting once, and then decreasing because I'm holding still, the pain starts sharply and it's growing exponentially worse.

 _This is it. what the hell... this IS hell. Again._

Steve moves slowly around me. "It's okay," he says quietly. "Just hold still. Don't move." He hits the call button for the nurse, and it's not working... again. "Shit, sorry buddy, stupid button," he says, "Hold on tight, okay? I'll go get Nurse Sonia."

It's like we're replaying the drama from earlier, except instead of mental and emotional pain, I'm in deep physical pain that feels like a medieval capital punishment of being drawn and quartered. Each breath is a haggard, shuddery inhale and a gaspy, shouty exhale.

It's bad enough to make me start blacking out. Not literal unconsciousness, but the sorts of black outs that assholes claim to have while they're assaulting and murdering their girlfriends. Just blocking the trauma for the sake of not having to deal with it.

I'm blinking slowly and I realize I am looking at both Steven, Nurse Sonia, and Chin. I don't know when Chin arrived. Chin and Steve both have their 'annoyed at authority' faces, Steve's considerably more pronounced. From what I can tell just by looking at them, it looks like Nurse Sonia told them to get out of her way. And now Chin is trying to keep Steve in place and do what the woman says.

"Detective Williams," Nurse Sonia is saying, "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain right now?"

"E-e-e-leven," I stutter horribly. I realize I am actually weeping and laughing at the same time. Wow. I'm a mess. "I mean," I say, "Maybe uh... ah... uh _nine,"_ the word nine comes out in a sort of hacking cough that makes it sound like I've just been shot in the chest in Saving Private Ryan and I am about to say goodbye to Tom Hanks.

"Nine," she says doubtfully, "Are you sure?"

"I-I-I..." I try to say, and then I sob with a sad little laugh, "My b-b-basis for comp-p-p-parison is getting st-st-stabbed by my ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, which was like a six, so, yeah..." I inhale sharply. "Nine."

I have my eyes squeezed shut again, trying to ignore the pulse of pain beating and throbbing in my abdomen. People will often describe some pains as being like flashes, or glimpses of hot or cold. I am sure I am guilty of the same comparisons.

But this was entirely different. It was a living, writhing throb, without any reprieve between breaths, thickly penetrable like an inner organ with a compulsion to explode.

And the smell. Pain has a smell now. There's a touch of disinfectant, nausea, a hint of human body odor, wool and blood. It's tangible.

"Any improvement?" asks the Nurse.

"Sh-sh-should there be?" I ask in confusion.

"I gave you an extra dose of your pain medication," she says gently. "I really want to try and make you comfortable. Before I make you lay back so I can check the incision. Okay?"

"Why don't we step outside?" Chin says politely.

"He doesn't care," Steve barks.

"Why don't we step outside," Chin repeats.

"Danno?" Steve asks. "I'm not going out that door till I know you're okay."

"You're worse than my mother," I say.

"See? He's okay," Chin promises. He tugs Steve's arm until he can convince him, half drag him out the door.

The nurse gives a little sigh as the door swings shut. "I love Five-Oh."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, a slight smirk appearing between my labored breathing. "You love us, huh?"

"Yeah," she shrugs. "It's nice knowing that people like you are protecting the island. Not because you're wearing a badge. But because you're good people, who care about each other. People who _love_ and _care_ should be the ones choosing how to protect us."

"Don't get too political on me," I try to joke, wincing and shutting my eyes again.

"Oh, believe me, you'd know it if I was going to get political," she rolls her eyes ever so slightly. "I don't discuss politics with my patients. Now - how do you feel about trying to lay back down? Willing to risk it?"

"I don't feel anything," I say slowly.

"Have you noticed that you can speak in full sentences now?" she replies.

"Oh... yeah. I guess so."

"Then it's working. Come on," she holds out her arm and has me lean on it. "Just hold onto me, and we'll lower you down. Remember what I've been reminding you... over and over... just use the button to adjust the bed for sitting up and sitting down. Stop trying to use your waist and abdomen. That's what the adjustable bed is for. Please try and remember."

"I won't forget _now,_ believe me," I say carefully through clenched teeth. Something gets _tweaked_ and I let out a heave.

Sonia pauses. "Take it easy. Let's go slowly."

Now I'm sitting the right way in bed, not facing the side. She hits the button for the back of the bed to rise up and meet my back.

"Now, why don't you relax into that?"

"Mkay," I mumble, relaxing. The tension leaves my abdomen and, thankfully, doesn't result in another hellish torture experience. I can feel the muscles in my lower back relax, then she lowers the bed back again, and carefully checks the incision. Lucky for me she barely touches it, only places one hand alongside of it and asks if I can feel it. I tell her yes.

"You didn't rip any stitches," she says.

"Staples," I correct grimly.

"Well, yes. They are staples." She agrees. "But everything is together. Whatever you tweaked was... well, on the inside."

I grimace, my whole middle sore as if I had just done an intense ab workout. "So... I don't have to go get an X-ray or anything, right?"

"No," she says, "Here's the problem, Detective Williams. This sort of pain is to be _expected._ It's only because it took you by such surprise from a sudden movement that it felt very, um, _wrong_ to you. But this is an ordinary reaction. You've been lucky so far to not feel this way off and on. We try to manage the pain as best we can but, I am sorry, it's only going to be more uncomfortable for you for the next several weeks. Unfortunately the new normal is being in some pain."

"Greeeeaaat," I drawl.

I wish I could say that was a happy ending. It wasn't. My pain levels worsened throughout the day, until I was lying on my side in a fetal position (not exactly the recommended posture) and dozing in and out of some sort of delirium. There's not a good way to explain the mental state of physical pain, except it's sort of like having a hazy fever, but without... the fever?

Third day was the worst. Third day made me think something went wrong and I was going to have to go _back_ into surgery and this time I would probably code on the operating table and die and leave my children orphans. But all the nurses assured me that this was normal.

"This can't be normal," I whisper to Steve at one point, around eleven pm at night. "This can't be the new normal. Not all the time. I don't think I can do this."

...

But at last, I finally get some sleep. It's the fourth day. I thought I'd been doing rather well, but my cheerful facade and grumpy jokes have come to an abrupt and sudden halt.

I'm done.

I'm completely, one hundred percent done.

I don't really know what changes, or if anything in particular triggers just how done I am. Was it the pain? The color of the walls? The faulty IV machine that set off an alarm every time there was a bubble, startling me to death? Was it the look of terror in Grace and Charlie's faces every time they entered the room to say hello?

I think I'm breaking. I need new batteries, a bible, a buddhist zen, a new brain, or something of that nature, or maybe all of the above. Or just... a new body. That'd be great. One without cancer.

I hang my head, coming to a place of such exhaustion and disappointment that I'm that _guy,_ that middle-aged guy, _with cancer..._ I weep lightly. Not loud sobby-sobs or anything. Just, letting some tears stream their way out in two small salty escape routes. "I want to go home," I say, over and over again. "I just want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home."

My mother is there with me, and she holds me as if I am a little boy with a scraped knee and a low tolerance for pain. Steve's hard at work on the case, but my mother is going to battle for me too. She demands to speak with the surgeon and ask if I am capable of going home.

And then, lo and behold - they say _yes._ Four days in this hell hole and they say _yes._

I can't believe they say it. The powers that be determine that I am doing well enough to leave the hospital. Going back to... Steve's place. Again. Which makes me sort of pissed off, because I want to be in my own bed, but I'll take it. Anywhere but here. The doctor's like WELL HEY YOU PASSED GAS CONGRATULATIONS YOU CAN GO HOME and I'm like haha yaaay fuck you very much.

 _Home home home home._

 _Not in a hospital._

At midday, Steve comes by with lunch, and is stoked to find that my mother has packed up all the flowers and cards, which means he is earning a new roommate at last.

"All right," says the nurse helping me prepare for a whole new med regime and checking out and signing some sort of waiver that I _wanted_ to leave. "I'll need to train you on how to give yourself injections."

"Aha," I chuckle. "Right."

"To prevent blood clots."

"To quote my kid... L-O-L."

She raises her eyebrows. "I have to show you how before you leave."

"You're not joking."

"Why would I joke about that?"

"I have to give myself injections?"

"Daily, for two weeks."

"Fuck that! I'm not doing that! I'll just exercise."

"You are going to be _unable_ to exercise regularly before you're able to manage your pain. The injections are not optional."

"This is a bad joke."

"I am not joking."

I look at Steve. "She's joking."

"I am not joking," the nurse repeats flatly. She doesn't have much patience for me.

Steve shrugs. "I'll help. You'll be fine."

"You're not coming anywhere near me with a needle."

Steve holds up his hands defensively. "Well you can't _skip_ them."

"And you're the professional now, because...?"

"One of us has to be!"

"Did you KNOW about these?"

"I read about it. 1 injection every morning for two weeks to prevent blood clotting. I don't see what the big deal is."

"You don't get it," I wagged a finger at him. "This sounds like something someone _makes up_ in a bad script for a cheesy medical-slash-crime drama where they just need some excuse to throw a couple of characters together for something emotional and make one of them suffer needlessly."

"What sort of tv are you watching?"

"I watch the shit that Grace watches! I can't help it if I am more in the know that you are."

"You think having regular injections for two weeks sounds made-up."

I look at the nurse. "I think it sounds made up."

"It's really not," she says tiredly. "You wouldn't think twice about it if you were staying at the hospital and it was a nurse administering the shot. It'd seem normal. It's only because you have to do it yourself that it seems... odd. Trust me. You'll get used to it."

There was the rub. I didn't want to get used to _any_ of this. I wanted it to be over so I could go back to my normal life.

"If I stayed in the hospital someone would be doing this for me," I clarify.

"But you want to go home," the nurse reminded, "So, someone has to do it."

"Why wasn't I getting any injections before now?" I ask pointedly.

The nurse gestures emphatically around the room. I suddenly decide that I like her. She is too exasperated to be a nurse. Maybe she should be a detective. "Because you're _here,"_ she says as if I asked her to recite the alphabet for me. "You have THIS," she smacks the top of the IV box, "And THIS," she points at the computer, "AND THIS," she jabs her finger in her own chest, "And all of THIS!" she waves her arms wildly at all the cords and IV fluids and needles and everything sticking out of me.

Steve's mouth is twitching as he tries not to bust out laughing.

"Okay," I say resignedly. "How does one shoot themselves?"

Steve sighs.

"Not, shoot, shot, give a shot to themselves," I correct lamely. "I wouldn't shoot myself."

"Let's hope not," says the girl with another sigh. She pulls a syringe out of a bag and attaches an uncomfortably thick-looking needle to it. "So you have to lay on your side- yes- just like that, and then stick it right about... here. Just give yourself a quick jab in the fleshy part like so, and push the plunger down slowly. Really, though, you don't have to do it this too slowly either. Just like this," (jab... and OW) "...one, two, three, four, and done. See? And you switch every side every day. So we just did your left side today. Tomorrow do your right side, same sort of area. Then switch left again. Back and forth."

"Okay, thanks, _Aulio,"_ I read her name tag sarcastically, rubbing my side where its stinging. "Easy enough when you talk about it like its a cooking show. But lemme ask you this, how do you expect me to give a shot to myself if I am lying on my side?"

"Then sit up," she shrugs. "You can do it sitting up, I guess, but I wouldn't really recommend it."

"She doesn't recommend it," I repeat mockingly. "Don't you think I'm going to need both hands? The angle you suggest is... not gonna work for me."

"You'll need a second person to do it I guess," she responds. "You're staying with him?" she gestures over at Steve.

"Yes," Steve says quickly, but I am shaking my head.

"Nope, nope, nope," I say. "I'm making other... arrangements."

"Were you paying attention to what I just did?" Nurse Aulio asks Steve.

"Yep, I was," Steve replies.

"Think you could do the same thing?"

"Easily," he says.

"NOPE!" I interject.

"Great," Aulio says. "You're hired."

"You're fired!" I bark. "He is not going to stab me every day for two weeks! His bedside manner is awful! I'd rather risk the blood clots!"

"I would not gamble your life for the comfort of not dealing with a gentle little needle-prick for less than a month," Aulio says briskly. "I would not ordinarily say this to one of my patients, Detective Williams, but you seem like you're a tough guy. A bit Jersey. Stubborn. So I'll put it to you like this - it would not be wise, nay, it would be incredibly _foolish_ to pretend you are somehow not susceptible to blood clots post-surgery just because you don't like shots. You'll be starting chemotherapy treatments in a few weeks, so, maybe it's about time you got used to needles. Now..." she sighs, and pats my arm gently. "Are you going to complain to my supervisor that I was harsh with you? Or are you going to just let me do my job, and then do me a solid by doing yours?"

I open my mouth to protest, and then clamp it shut again.

"I would take that as an agreement," Steven says. "That's as close as you'll get."

"I accept," the nurse handed me a folder with papers in it. "The prescription for the injections are in that folder. Do _not_ lose it. And you must stop at the pharmacy on your way home to pick these up. Understand?"

"I understand," I say gruffly.

"Good man," she says. "Now, Nurse Sonia will be back to discharge you. Then you're free to go home and binge watch Netflix."

"Hey!" I exclaim with false excitement to Steve. "You wana watch that cop show Grace introduced me to?"

"The CSI Maui?" Steve repeats. "Actually, yes. I'm only on episode two."

"I was bein' sarcastic," I say. "I don't want to binge anything."

"But it's a good show."

"No, it's not, Steven," I say slowly. "It's not. They just speed around the island with guns blazing and they don't even really do any crime fighting, they mostly just surf and drink and smoke weed and get pregnant and then once in awhile a serial killer kidnaps someone and makes them pay a ransom or something. The main characters are sleeping with a new bikini-clad tourist girl ever week."

Steve shrugs. "It's just entertainment. We've had our fair share of surfing and drinking."

"Yeah, like, on a weekend," I protest. "These guys are unprofessional and I doubt they even have a legal advisor on their crew. It's unrealistic and annoying."

"It sounds like you watch it a lot."

"Like I said, I watch TV with Grace. It's been kind of our thing... lately."

Steve pauses. "Yeah, well, when you're couch-ridden, you can't be too choosy about your television when you have a teenage daughter." He grins. "You know I've had people tell me that the main characters in that show remind them of us?"

"How so?"

"Oh, they argue a lot, act like brothers half the time, jilted lovers the other half..."

"There is something very disturbing about that sentence you just said."

"One is sort of the nerdy, family man, that's you, then the other one is kind of the cowboy hero, that's me!"

"I am in no-way nerdy. I am nothing like... nerdy. If anything, you're a nerd. A Navy nerd, but still a nerd. I mean, only a nerd would try to play Battleship according to real-life scenarios."

"Glad you guys are getting back to your normal selves," Kono steps in, with a big white grin stretching across her face. "I brought some donuts, but I heard you're being released. That true?"

"It IS true," I say, welcoming her in with a wave of my arm. "But I'm also starving."

"Here," Kono holds the open box out for me, and I remove a sugary donut hole.

"Thank-you, oh divine one," I say, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm sure they have rules about this stuff. Better hide it or something."

"Eat fast," Kono nods at Steve. "Have some, boss. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't," he says shortly. "Kono, lemme ask you, do you watch that show? CSI Maui?"

"I only DVR it when Adam has seen an episode on the prison TV," Kono says. "So I'll watch it later and we make up goofy predictions about what will happen next. Sort of like watching a cop soap opera by proxy."

"So you agree it's like a soap opera and horribly made," I point out. "Have you noticed half the crimes take place on Oahu with zero explanation? Like they just hop back and forth and they don't pretend its a very long boat ride or you have to take a plane? Like they're driving their cars through Lahaina and suddenly they're sitting at Blue Water Shrimp eating burgers."

"They have to find good locations to film," Kono shrugs and eats a donut hole while licking the white frosting off her finger. "You know, the main homicide detectives sort of remind me of you and Steve. They're always arguing but they completely adore each other."

"Can you pull the boss card and tell her that's inappropriate workplace speech," I say.

"We're not at work," Kono laughs.

"I was saying the SAME THING," Steve holds out his hands defensively. "And I..." his cell phone beeps loudly. He whips it out of his pocket and steps towards the rest room. "McGarrett," he says. "Uh huh. Yeah. Great. Thanks Max." He hangs up and looks at me. "Let's get you out of this hell-hole, buddy," he says, rather apologetically. "I need to drop you off at my place and get back to work."

"So, uh, you gonna, enlighten me as to what Max found?" I ask.

"You're not on this case."

"But uh... I can help, ya know. Help you process while you think out loud. I can help with conjecture."

Steven shrugs. "Maybe in the car. I'm going to track down Nurse Sonia so she can release you. Kono, will you, uh..."

"You want me, to watch, this guy?" Kono points a thumb over at me. "Sure."

"Are you, suddenly, William Shatner?" I joke.

"Hang tight, I'm busting you out," Steven jokes, energetically trotting out of the room. A man on a mission, who always needs a mission.

If I die, does taking care of Gracie in my absence become his new mission? Or will he swear off the cause forever and withdraw into himself?

Neither prospect give me any semblance to cheer.

...

...

* * *

...

...

Brief little update: Health is still OK. Not... great. But OK. I feel good. I'm eating heathy (except the cookies today... sigh... cookies are my weakness) but I am doing pretty good at sticking with my anti-cancer diet (so much kale!)

But my numbers are a little high. Not out of the range of normal, but for me, they're a little uncomfortably high. So my cancer indicator, my LDH level (I don't even know what that means, but, that's my cancer marker) is still within normal range, and has been at every check up. The range is like... 110 to 250, I think. So my first appointment was 220, or something, the next one went down to 150, then it was 167, then it was 210 something... see what I mean? It's still below the limit. Which is good. But I'm really afraid that next time I go to an appointment (January, I believe) I am fearful it will be over 250. I don't know. I don't know what that will mean for me. More tests? Another battle with cancer? More chemotherapy? Mentally my headspace isn't that great, so that's why I haven't been writing as much. It stopped being therapeutic for awhile and more of a painful reminder. So I quit, for a bit. But then I needed the therapy again of writing the experiences, so I started again.

Anyway, I know some of you don't pray, but if you'd consider trying it for me on my behalf, I'd be much obliged. If not, that's okay too. I just feel like I need all the spiritual help I can get. Help beyond the normal help. Divine intervention sort of help for my mental state! I'm worried. I mean, I'll always worry, but I am more worried now than I was a few months ago.

I'm only 26 you guys. Why can't boyfriends and car payments be the extent of my worries?!


	12. Ha'ule lau

Dear Readers, thank you so much for all your amazing reviews. Your encouragements and personal stories and prayers are inspiring. Wow. this community is just so full of love and support... you know you guys are better than the ACTUAL cancer survivors support group I'm in?! No one really has nice things to say there by comparison. You guys are the best.

Love,

Pip

 _..._

* * *

...

...

Ha`ule lau

autumn

...

...

I'm not nearly as fun as I used to be during the first surgery. This one took a lot out of me, and more than what was on the shopping list. It took my energy, my humor, and any sense of muscle mass I had had. I'm just a haggard skin-bag with bones rattling around inside, helped into a wheelchair, pushed into the spacious lobby, and left in the space between the two automatic doors while Steve opens up the car doors.

Steven has to help me up into the car, handing me a pillow to hold, buckles me in, gently pushes my legs over so he can shut the door. I'm not super used to being manhandled about 95 percent of the time, and it's uncomfortable, to put it very lightly.

He sends the wheelchair back and runs around the front to jump in the car. It takes me a moment to realize its mine, but I don't bother saying anything. The whole 'you can't operate heavy machinery' probably also refers to vehicles. And I'd much rather struggle in and out of a my car than Steve's awkwardly massive truck.

I'm still not much fun on the drive back. I try to start vague conversations and then I forget what we're talking about halfway through and doze off. I felt better in a hospital bed, I'll admit (though not out loud) but the simple energy it took to get discharged put me back in the same headspace I had three days ago. Sleepy, forgetful, and mildly confused.

The scenes outside of the window look a little too sharp, and everything smells a little too much. I can smell my body odor, the leather of the seats, the styrofoam cup in the cupholder, Steve's deodorant, my athletic duffel bag sitting on the seat behind us, and every tar, cement, dust, oil and exhaust smell that rolls by outside in construction areas and from semi trucks off the freeway. I suddenly have a super-power of the super-sniff. I could probably pinpoint a piece of gum stuck to the guardrail outside the moving vehicle.

We pull in to the pharmacy, and I take the time while Steve is inside to fall asleep again. It didn't take long for me to twitch awake, like a post-falling dream, and we're no longer on the freeway. Driving through the wider-street neighborhoods, palm fronds gracefully swaying and rattling. The sunshine feels oppressively warm, and the clouds suspiciously thick and gray. Tropical rains and flash floods would soon start reigning in the local news again. Autumn in Hawaii was a far cry from Autumn in New York and Boston. No orange maple leaves gracing city blocks named for the founding fathers, a hint of fog and woodsmoke in the air, fresh morning coffee... and me, making rounds in low income neighborhoods, that small part of me trying to prove to minorities that not all white cops are there to brutalize or prematurely shoot troubled teenagers. Stopping and shooting a few hoops on the street with an informant and his three kids before Grace (my partner) urges me to move on.

I had fallen asleep a second time. "Grace," I say quietly, shifting and looking around. Steve's halfway out of the car, but he pokes his head back in.

"What 'bout Gracie?" he asks.

"Nuthin," I say, hoarsely and emotionally. "I just can't wait to see her, is all." I open the car door and unbuckle myself. I think I was dreaming about my partner that was killed. But the first thought on my mind, before I'm even fully awake, will always be my daughter. I wonder what she's doing right now.

...

Steve holds my arm firmly until I'm settled in the guest room again. My abdomen is starting to hurt. A slow, carving-knife sort of dullness threading its way from my sternum, nearly to my waist.

"Here," he says, "You're supposed to take... uh... two of these, one of these, and one of these."

I hesitate.

"Do you want me to read you the bottles?" he asks confusedly.

"I trust you," I reply, accepting two small white pills, a red pill, and a light yellowish green pill. Two for pain. One for nausea. One for sleep _and_ pain. I look at them in the palm of my hand, feeling as if the choice to be a good boy and take my meds at this moment were the beginning of some new life chapter.

Every day was its own crossroads, rather than just normal guys who might have a mid-life crises or be forced once in awhile to get divorced, quit their job, or move away... now, it seemed like every minuscule choice I made was going to have life or death repercussions. The pressure of turning right, or left, knowing I could yield unfathomable results... What if I become one of those guys who will never be able to _not_ take pills ever again? What if I am sucking them down thrice daily for the rest of my short life?

I take my pills. _I promised Gracie._

...

It's a rough day, and it turns into a rough night. Pills every four hours. Fatigue, and yet, unable to sleep. When sleep finally comes, its fraught with strange dreams, sounds, and pains. Pills at noon, four, eight, and midnight. Then at four a.m., eight a.m., then we're back to noon again. Waking up at four is the worst one. I'm always groggy and grumpy and startled when I wake up, scared to death for some unknown reason. Steve has started greeting me at four a.m. with, "Hey, it's only me. You're at my house, remember?"

Then there's the shots. The shots are the absolute fucking worst.

First time.

I try to psych myself into doing it myself. But I can't pinch enough skin to get it in. There's not _enough_ of me.

So I wrangle in the nearest cowboy. "All right, babe," I say the next morning. It's been a long, rough first night home and both of us look like old Hollywood villains, dark circles under our eyes and pale skin, which is harder to come by in Hawaii. "Gimme a shot."

Steve cracks all knuckles, his neck, spine, and shoulders before grabbing the syringe from the pharmacy bag and clicking the thing into place with a nausea-inducing snap. He's trying to pump himself up for stabbing me in the abdomen as much as I have to pump myself up for allowing myself to be stabbed.

I sit on the couch, lift up my shirt, and lean on the armrest. "All right, don't be a wuss. Hit me."

"I don't want to," Steve says.

"If I annoy you enough, will you do it?"

"Being annoying enough is never in doubt, my friend," he replies uneasily. "Just... uh... give me a count of three!"

" _YOU_ give me a count of three!" I argue. "I'm the one getting stabbed, here! If I say three and you lose your nerve and it don't happen, I'm never trusting you again. So YOU count to three and I'll just breathe nice and easy and make myself all relaxed and easily stab...able? Stabbable? Stububble _?_ "

"Don't hurt yourself."

"That's why you're holding the needle."

"Fair point. Uh... okay."

"Steven. Count to three, god damnit."

"Sure. Yeah. We'll do that."

"Okay. Go."

"One..."

I'm breathing in...

"Two..."

And out.

"Three."

Jab.

"Huh," I say hoarsely. "That was fine."

"Did I do it right?" Steve pulls the needle back out and flips the cap, then dumps it into the disposal bucket. "I don't want to do that ever again."

"But tomorrow..."

"EVER!"

"Tomorrow, Steve."

"Okay, tomorrow. But I don't _want_ to ever do that again."

"I would think you would like this, you weirdo."

"Give you crap for the rest of your life, yes. Cause you physical pain for any amount of time, never."

I shrug and smile at him. "It didn't even hurt. It was fine. Surprisingly fine."

"Really?"

"Don' even worry 'bout it. We'll worry about it tomorrow."

Right, so it was fine at first, then it was harder. Each day was a fine balance between getting my breath just-right and if I wasn't completely relaxed it felt like a fucking torpedo had been shrunk and jettisoned by laser into my stomach, bursting upon impact to let loose acidic poison and...

I'm ranting and sometimes I forget what I'm even talking about.

Most of the time, it's fine. I breathe right and Steve promises he'll never do it again. Sometimes I don't breathe right and it fucking hurts and I almost make my broad-shouldered Navy partner cry.

One time in particular, I just hissed at him like a cat. _"That fucking hurt,"_ I say. It didn't feel the way shots are supposed to feel. It felt like someone shoved an icicle into my appendix.

"Shit. I did it wrong. I knew it. I'd ruin it. I'd kill you on accident. _Damnit, damnit!"_ Steve stomped away and I heard him throw something against the wall in the other room, cursing loudly. We haven't spoken about it since.

..

Steve brings Gracie over a few days a week after school to spend some time with me. She does her homework at the end of the couch while I sleep, for the most part. I try to stay awake and we watch some horrible CSI Maui. There's even a scene where the main characters are driving by the famous tree in Lahaina and then turn a corner and suddenly they're driving by the mall on Oahu. Shooting their show all over the islands and pretending it's all on one island looks _ridiculous._

Gracie is reading a book one afternoon. Not a school book. It looks like one of those sappy teenage romances.

"What's that?" I ask.

She shrugs. "You wouldn't like it."

"That is likely a correct statement but not the correct answer. What is that?"

She sighs and folds the corner of her page, then shuts the book and hands it to me. "It's called _The Fault In Our Stars,"_ she says. "It's a love story."

"Mkay," I turn it over and read the back. _"What the..."_

"Told you you wouldn't like it," she says, trying to tug it out of my hands.

I finally release it after a moment of hesitation. "Monkey," I say patiently, "You sure you, uh, _want_ to read somethin' like that?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Why not? It's a good book."

"A cancer love story? Really?"

"It makes it better than other love stories," Grace replies. "Because it's not full of bull..."

"HEY!" I bark.

"I mean, it's not full of crap. Most love stories about kids in my age group are just dumb, you know? They're usually paranormal, too. Someone's a werewolf or a vampire-pirate or a moon-fairy or something stupid like that. And the biggest threat to their relationship is, like, an evil villain trying to end the world."

"Right, that's not threatening at all," I joke.

"Come on, DAD," Grace adjusts the way she is sitting so that she is turning and facing my end of the couch where I'm lounging. "Their love is real because they're like real kids with real problems. The whole cancer thing strips away the stupid stuff that doesn't matter, like love triangles and lust and whatever. See what I mean?"

"I'm not sure..."

"Hazel and Gus don't know how much time they have left so they don't waste their time on arguing about stupid things or being jealous or doing horrible things. Not like people usually do in books like this. When they fall in love it's like _real_ love. Caring about each other spiritually. Like the kind of love you're supposed to have when you marry somebody."

"You're a smart, beautiful girl, and I love you," I say, "And I feel - for me - I have been at least somewhat successful as a parent if you read this stuff and _that's_ your takeaway."

Grace looks down at the blue and white cover. "Lots of people don't like this book."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"They think it makes terminal illness romantic," Grace peeks up at me curiously. "When it's not romantic at all."

"And I'm guessing the author doesn't have cancer either," I tug it back from her hands this time and look at the back sleeve. "John Green?" I laugh. "He looks like he's _my_ age and he's writing about a couple of teenagers hooking up? That's disgusting."

Grace fights a smile. "I think he was inspired by a real girl and wanted to give her the love story she never had."

I open to a random page. "There's always a harmartia?" I quote with a scoff. "Teens don't talk like that now, do they?"

"We would if we all read better love stories, like this one," Grace steals it back and nestles back in the cushions again, resuming her reading and tuning me out.

I stare at her for a moment, and she's not paying any attention. I catch myself wondering if you forget what someone looks like when you die. We just cease to exist, right? We turn into a poof of dust... then what? Where does the mind go?

Even while unconscious in my car having that stupid seizure thing, I was thinking. According to everyone else, when I wasn't flailing around in my front seat and vomiting and shitting all over myself, I was not awake. I wasn't conscious.

And yet I was hearing the whole gates of hell thing and I could see colors and I could hear Steve screaming in my ear.

Is that what it's like when we die? Just color and pain and sounds and a strange, sort of sarcastic processing technique where you can _think_ about it all you want, but you no longer have a working mouth to say anything about it?

My phone buzzes. I look down and it's an unknown number. Instantly on alert, I open the text message.

 _(1/4) Hi,_ says the message, _You don't know me, and I know this may seem a little weird, but I heard about your situation and I was wondering if I could introduce myself._

 _(2/4) My name is Hayley and I work at your daughter's school. I'm not a teacher or anything otherwise I'd feel like it would sort of be a conflict of interest, hitting on a student's dad. I'm actually head of buildings services, managing maintenance and_

 _(3/4) electrical and janitorial departments. Anyway, Grace confided some fears with me about you recently breaking up with your girlfriend, and asked me to reach out, in case you were lonely and needed someone to talk to. Ordinarily_

 _(4/4) I wouldn't do this but Grace was pretty insistent that we would get along really well._

I slowly look over the top of the phone at my daughter. Her eyes flick towards me and she _pretends_ she doesn't make eye contact, instantly going back to her book pages. I slowly reach over and push the book slowly down so that we're looking at each other.

"Who's that, Daddy?" she asks, her eyes so huge Steve could probably drive my car through one of them and emerge out the other. You can determine Grace's guilt by the size of her eyes.

"Someone named Hayley who has my number, my very private number," I reply.

"Oh, sure, Hayley," Grace pretends to sound noncommittal to this conversation. "She manages some stuff at school. I thought you could take her on a date or something... I mean... when you feel better."

"I don't think..." I pause, and rethink. _I don't think long-term right now. I can't think long term. I am not thinking like I'm living more than another year. But I also can't say that to my daughter._ "I don't think giving my number to a strange lady is the best way to do it. Maybe you could've introduced us at your school."

"You would have found a way to make it awkward and you probably wouldn't have asked for her number in front of me, so I gave it to her for you," Grace replies. She leans forward slightly, trying to peak at my phone. "What are you gonna say?"

"Hmph, wouldn't you like to know?" I lift my foot slightly so that my sock is dangerously close to her face. She groans and leaps off the couch, trotting into the kitchen for juice. "Will you warm up some canned chicken soup while you're in there, baby?" I ask.

"Sure," she calls back.

I hit reply.

 _That's very thoughtful of you and I'm sure it means a lot to Grace. She is trying to take care of me and, while this is news to me, that includes setting me up on blind dates._

My phone buzzes. She must have lightening fingers to reply so fast.

 _(1/2) Grace is a great girl, always kind to everyone she meets. She said you were in law enforcement and would appreciate a woman who works very hard as well. While telling Larry the janitor to take a Wednesday_

 _(2/2) shift instead of Thursday may not be quite as sacrificial or exciting as being a cop, I go home happy and satisfied with hard work well done. And that's important. Are you working and doing treatments simultaneously?_

I settle back in the couch with a slightly stupid smile and reply.

 _Hard work is important. I agree. Currently on short term disability while I'm recovering from surgery. I'm not entirely sure how the work thing will pan out. It's a pretty active job. They might let me come back part time and do paperwork for awhile. Not exactly the ideal situation. I like moving around._

BZZZZTTT!

What the? Am I texting Quicksilver?

 _Well, while you're bed ridden, maybe you need something to brighten you up. I have a huge bouquet of bright yellow daisies here in my car with no place to call home unless I take them home and let them die in my kitchen sink. I'd much rather bring them to you as a get-well gift. What do you think?_

What do I think? What is even happening right now?

I opt for struggling to the bathroom before replying. It hurts to be on my feet for more than a minute, so I hurry (as best as I can) to hobble towards the rest room and relieve myself. I need the extra time to process this spontaneous text-flirtation that just slammed me out of left field. I also have to consider that I am high as a kite on pain medication.

Suddenly I remember that it's cancer.

 _Cancer._

Not a simple surgery where you jump back into normal life after a few weeks of recovery. I may in fact be on a downhill slope, and I don't plan on trying to summon enough energy to hold hands with someone while also trying not to drag them down with me.

Of course I am not going to start _dating._ That would be a bad idea... wouldn't it?

What is even happening right now? Is she really asking to _come over_ so we can have an awkward first meeting and introduce ourselves and she'll give me flowers that can just die in _my_ kitchen sink? What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't offer to take anyone out to dinner. My fingers ache from texting with this woman more in the last five minutes than I have with Steve in a week.

I pause and look at the mirror to see if I am presentable enough to receive visitors.

My face is dark gray. My hair is greasy. The dressing on my stapled abdomen keeping my shirt from irritating the wound smells sort of ripe. I have dark shadows so deep in the recesses under my eyes that I look like I'm wearing Halloween makeup. I haven't showered yet. I'm so skinny that my pants regularly fall off me if I walk too quickly to the bathroom.

I open the bathroom door and smell the chicken soup I had requested. The smell fills me with a revulsion and I realize I still need to take my anti-nausea meds before consuming anything.

I shut the door again and take the small red pill. I breathe heavily over the sink for a moment, fighting a sort of hyperventilation attack for no good reason. Only because I don't like feeling gross. Or sick. And I'm the grossest and the sickest.

I try the door again and take a deep breath. The smell of the soup doesn't send my stomach into chaotic trapeze routines, so that's a plus. I take a few more deep breaths and determine it's safe enough to return to the couch, but I should probably wait another ten minutes before eating.

"You can leave it in the kitchen for me, Grace," I call. "I'll make myself exercise by walking to the kitchen when my pills kick in, okay?"

"Suit yourself," Grace comes back to the couch with juice and a granola bar. "So... are you going to text her back or what?"

"Of course I am," I say sleepily, settling down in the blankets again. "But nothing too crazy, okay? I'm not up to wooing anyone. It's just not good timing for her, or for me. Not that it wasn't a good idea, or a nice thing for you to try and do. It was very nice. I just can't take you up on it yet. You understand, right?"

"Yeah. I just thought it might be worth a try."

"Of course it was. C'mere," I give her a quick smooch on top of her head. "Very thoughtful of you."

When Grace has turned her attention to Netflix, I text Hayley back. I noticed she texted me a picture of the yellow flowers, bunched up on her car seat. I can't spy Hayley's face in any reflective material in the car or in the side mirror. Part of me is disappointed. I admit, I was curious about what she looked like.

 _Sorry it took me a min reply,_ I say. _Now's not a great time, but I am sure I will meet you someday. Who ever visits me is in danger of being projectile vomited on. I wouldn't want that to be our first meeting. Thanks for the picture of the flowers. That's very nice. I appreciate the thought, really do._

 _Of course,_ she replies immediately, _I totally understand. Rest well and take care of yourself!_

I replace my phone back on the coffee table. When I don't touch it for five minutes or more, Grace sighs loudly.

"Our conversation ended on a polite, positive note," I say with finality.

"So is ours," Grace snaps back.

I laugh so loudly it hurts my staples and I have to make Grace get me another pain pill.

When Rachel comes to pick her up, I kiss her goodnight and call her angel. And then I correct myself and call her cupid instead. She seems to resent this strongly and turns bright red with embarrassment.

I live for my kid-shaming. She's too freaking adorable.

...

The following day Steve suddenly goes into drill sergeant mode, much to my horror.

"Come on, we're going to make the full walk through the backyard, to the water, and back," he says, tugging my arm. I had made it from upstairs to the living room and through the back of the house and onto the back porch, looking out to the ocean. That's as far as I needed. That's as far as I _could_ go. I didn't have the endurance to do otherwise, and I still needed the energy to get upstairs again.

I resist. "I'm too tired."

"No, you're not. You've been bed-ridden for two weeks."

"Week and a half."

"So? Doc said you gotta keep moving and start working up some strength again. You'll heal faster. You've lost all your body fat and most of your muscle and if you lose much else you'll become transparent! So let's walk!"

"Listen, I need to take it easy, okay?" I remind him. "I've been working up to new distances. I can't do it all at once."

"Trust me, you can. I'll be right with you every step of the way."

He's completely in earnest, with the hopeful expression worn by most mothers who really _do_ think that little Norman Bates is innocent and would never harm a fly.

"Every step," I repeat sarcastically.

"Of course. I gotchyou." Steve tugs my elbow and holds my arm in his hand delicately. "To the water and back."

I look down the porch. It's not a huge yard. It's decent. Maybe about fifty feet to where the waves are breaking on his own private beach. The lounge chairs aren't sitting out where they usually are, for some weird reason, they're folded up against the side of the house by his truck. No safety net.

I start walking down the porch, Steve hovering as if he's trying to teach me to ride a bike. (Except if I crash, I'm not wearing a helmet). I can't take normal steps. I shuffle from side to side, the phrase _one step at a time_ painfully more truthful than anything else. Sort of like when someone with a bum knee has to go up and down the stairs. Instead of a single step taking you forward, having any sort of stride, you take one small step. Your next step just brings you even to your previously moved foot. _Then_ you advance a half step.

Does this sound exhausting? Boring? Long? Sluggish? Over emphasizing for a very simple task? Welcome to my damn world.

"You're doing _great,_ keep coming," Steve says.

"So we've made it off the porch," I say, the muscles beginning to burn with abandon in my lower back. Feels like a hot press is urging me along.

"Just a bit farther."

A _lot_ farther.

"Good. Almost there."

I feel the twinge again, the ripping sensation from my groin up to my naval. "I think I should cool it," I reply gruffly.

"So we stop and rest a minute, just stand quietly," Steve offers. "Then we keep going."

"No, I'm saying we should go _back."_

"But you're doing great! Come on! Little more!"

"You're impossible, y' know, people should be tellin' you no more often, y'know that? Maybe you'd learn something."

"You say no too much!"

It feels like my pelvic bone is slowly inching its way out of it's place in my body and working it's way upwards towards my ribs. A hand-like pressure, as if there's a little demon trapped in my body trying to break out through the staples, starts pushing from the inside.

"Steve..."

"You're doing great! Almost there!"

So I don't say anything. The more the pain grows, the more an anger is growing, a dark sort of other-worldly experience where I am suddenly associating Steve's positivity and coach-like tendencies with the pain. Like it's his fault.

But maybe it is? He's making me do this, isn't he? Didn't really leave me with no choice?

I could have said no - what would he do? Manhandle me? Unlikely.

"You're doing great," Steve repeats. "Look, we've made it. We're on the sand. Almost to the water."

"No, I'm not," I say in a low voice, "I'm not okay. I need to go back now."

"Just a little farther..."

"You're not listening to me, Steven," I say, unable to expand my diaphragm enough for the increased volume I wish I could have. "We're at a seven, okay? We're a seven."

"What's a seven?"

"It's like a seven. Borderline eight. I need to... to... not... be standing..." Somehow the word that was the opposite of standing and walking was escaping me. Probably because I was at the point where I _wished_ I could pass out as a pain management technique, but no such luck yet.

"So you mean pain level on a scale of one to ten?" Steve reaches for my elbow again when I grotesquely struggle to make a 180 degree turn and aim myself for the house again.

Suddenly the yard looks like an effing football field.

I groan. "Okay," I whisper to myself. "Okay... okay..."

Steve is mostly silent as he walks beside me, supporting one arm and just making sure that I don't keel over. He'd offer to carry me but at some point remembered that you can't hoist a man whose stomach is held together by staples for a piggy-back-ride.

The walk back to the house takes longer because I am moving ten times slower than before if such a thing is possible. When we finally get onto the porch, Steve opens the door, and I walk into the living room. Then I slowly drift down to the floor till I'm kneeling.

'Whoa, whoa whoa! Hey buddy! What are you doing? I got ya. It's okay. Hold on a sec." Steve grabs a pillow from the couch and sets it next to me, thinking that's precisely where my head will fall. "Do you feel dizzy? Lightheaded?"

Steve thinks I'm passing out. I'm not. I just can't stand anymore.

"No," I say shortly. I let myself sink the rest of the way and curl up on my side, holding my abdomen and keeping the inner demon from ripping it open again. "Just... leave me alone for a sec, kay? Can you do that? Just a god-damn sec?"

Steve gets sort of quiet and sad-looking. "Yeah buddy. I'll just step in the kitchen and check the time table. Maybe you're due for another pain pill."

I'm not. I just had one an hour ago, whose work was quickly undone by our jaunt.

He hesitates and pats my arm ever so slightly and then disappears into the kitchen.

I lay on the floor, agonizing pains rolling up and down my entire body.

I'm angry.

Angry because he pushed me beyond capacity. Angry for having limitations. Mostly angry because he will constantly believe that you can argue your way to having strength and health, just by deciding to do something will simply make it so. If I die, he'll probably blame me for not _believing_ hard enough. You can't argue with a grave, but he'll certainly try! He'll stare at my headstone and bark at it, getting frustrated when I can't answer because I'm too busy being dead.

...

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 _Sorry it's a shorter chapter, guys, I REALLY wanted to get this uploaded soon! Hopefully newer chapters will see more crime-fighting, though as this point I'm not sure how that would work for Danny. When I recovered from surgery, I started chemo and then went back to work. At times I'd be at work for four hours and then leave and go to a four hour chemo appointment. UGH! Those were the days! YUCK!_

 _So, real life scenarios; definitely read the Fault in Our Stars after surgery (bad idea), was pushed too far in the orchard on our property and had to enjoy the highway to hell all the way back home... and lastly... got hit on through text message? My cousin tried to set me up with her best friend and he really wanted to bring me flowers. Meanwhile I am simultaneously texting him back and then barfing. So. I didn't really understand why anyone would want to bring me anything and politely ended it before it went anywhere. Was I too harsh? He was a nice guy. But way over-eager. You'll see more of that in the next chapter with Haley's character._

 _Just had my first cancer screening of 2017 at the end of last month and I am still cancer free! Year two! Woohoo! My numbers look great and it turned out I misunderstood how they worked in general. My LDH levels don't have to be worrisome if, say, it crept over the recommended limit of 250. It would have to jump by the hundreds if it meant I need to worry. So. Silly me. shifting from 190 to 199 is totally normal and I shouldn't have worried about it._

 _Anyway, thanks for reading!_

 _Please review and let me know what you think!_


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